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ERNEST LINWOOD; 



A NOVEL, 



BT 



CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 



BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. 

CLEVELAND, OHIO: 

JIWKTT, PBOCTOB AND WORTUINOTON. 

VXW TORK: BH£LDO]f, ULMPORT AKD BULKSMAN. 

1856. 



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V . - : 



/^^o.B.y/ 



n\^^^ 




rv^A.v^ » J 



J v^Wvxvccc^ OTi ^t^"^ C • 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 

CAROLINE LEE HENTZ, 

In the Clerk*8 Office of the District Court of the Dbtriot of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDOR : 

AUEK AXD rAUriUM, SnaBOTTPllS AHP PBixnis. 



4^ 






ERNEST LINWOOD. 



I 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 



CHAPTER I. 

With an incident of mj childhood I will commence the 
record of mj life. It stands out in bold prominence, rugged 
and bleak, through the haze of memory. 

I was only twelve years old. He might have spoken less 
%., harshly. He might have remembered and pitied my youth and 
)|^ii^vn$ftiveness, tliat tall, powerful, hitherto kind man, — my pre- 
ceptor, and, as I believed, my friend. Listen to what he did t^ay, 
in the presence of the whole school of boys, as well as girls, 
assembled on that day to hear the weekly exercises read, writ- 
ten on subjects which the master had given us the previous 
week. 

One by one, we were called up to the platform, where he sat 
enthroned in all the majesty of the Olympian king-god. One 
by one, the manuscripts were read by their youthful authors, — 
the criticisms uttered, which marked them willi honor or 
shame, — gliding figures passed each other, going and return- 
ing, while a hasty exchange of glances, betrayed the fiash of 
triumph, or the gloom of disap{X)intment. 

^ Gabriella Lynn ! ** The name sounded like thunder in my 
ears. I rose, trembling, blushing, feeling as if every pair of 
eyes in the hall were burning like redhot balls on my face. I 
tried to move, but my feet were glued to the floor. 

!• (6) 



6 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" Gabriella Lynn ! " 

The tone was louder, i more commanding, and I dared not 
resist the mandate. The greater fear conquered the less. With 
a desperate effort I walked, or rather rushed, up the steps, the 
paper fluttering in mj hand, as if blown upon by a strong wind. 

^ A little less haste would be more decorous. Miss." 

The shadow of a pair of beetling brows rolled darkly over 
me. Had I stood beneath an overhanging cliff, with the ocean 
waves dashing at my feet, I could not have felt more awe or 
dread. A mist settled on my eyes. 

"Read," — cried the master, waving his ferula with a com- 
manding gesture, — " our time is precious." 

I opened my lips, but no sound issued from my paralyzed 
tongue. With a feeling of horror, which the intensely diffident 
can understand, and only they, I turned and was about to fly 
back to my seat, when a large, strong hand pressed its weight 
upon my shoulder, and arrested my flight. 

" Stay where you are," exclaimed Mr. Regulus. " Have I 
not lectured you a hundi*ed times on this preposterous shame- 
facedness of yours ? Am I a Draco, with laws written in blood, 
a tyrant, scourging with an iron rod, that you thus shrink and 
tremble before me ? Read, or suffer the penalty due to disobe- 
dience and waywardness." 

Tlius threatened, I commenced in a husky, faltering voice, 
the reading of lines which, till that moment, I had believed 
glowing with the inspiration of genius. Now, how flat and 
commonplace they seemed ! It was the first time I had ever 
ventured to reveal to others the talent hidden with all a miser's 
vigilance in my bosom casket I had lisped in rhyme, — I had 
improvised in rhyme, — I had dreamed in poetry, when the 
moon and stars were looking down on me with benignant lus- 
tre ; — I had thought poetry at the sunset hour, amid twilight 
shadows and midnight darkness. I had scribbled it at early 
mom in my own little room, at noonday recess at my solitary 
desk ; but no human being, save my mother, knew of the young 
dream-girl's poetic raptures. 

One of those irresistible promptings of the spirit which all 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 7 

haTe felt, and to which many have yielded, induced me at this 
era to break loose from my shell and come forth, as I imagined, 
a beautiful and briUiant butterfly, soaring up above the gaze of 
my astonished and admiring companions. Yes; with all my 
diffidence I anticipated a scene of triumph, a dramatic scene, 
which would terminate perhaps in a crown of- laurel, or a pub- 
lic ovation. 

Lowly self-estimation is by no means a constant accompani- 
ment of diffidence. The consciousness of possessing great 
powers and deep sensibility oflen creates bashfulness. It is 
their veil and guard while maturing and strengthening. It is 
the flower-sheath, that folds the corolla, till prepared to encoun- 
ter the sun's burning rays. 

^^Read!" 

I did read, — one stanza.. I could not go on though the 
Bcaflbld were the doom of my silence. 

" What foolery is this ! Give it to me." 

The paper was pulled from my clinging fingers. Clearing 
his throat with a loud and prolonged hem, — then giving a 
flourish of his ruler on the desk, he read, in a tone of withering 
deri:rion, the warm breathings of a child's heart and soul, strug- 
gling after immortality, — the spirit and trembling utterance of 
lonj; cheri>hed, long imprisoned yearnings. 

Now, wlien after years of reflection I look back on that 
* ^ never-to-be-forgotten moment, I can form a true estimate of the 
poem subjected to that fiery ordeal, I wonder the paper did not 
scorch and shrivel up like a burning scroll. It did not deserve 
ridicule. The thoughts were fresh and glowing, the measure 
correct, the versification melodious. It was the genuine oflP- 
spring of a young imagination, urged by the " strong necessity " 
of giving utterance to its bright idealities, the sighings of a heart 
looking beyond its lowly and lonely destiny. Ah! Mr. Regu- 
lus, you were cruel then. 

Methinks I see him, — hear him now, weighing in the iron 
scales of criticism every springing, winged idea, cutting and 
•lashing the words till it seemed to me they dropped blood, — 



< 



\ 



8 ERNEST LIXWOQ^ 

then glancing from me to the liTing rows of benches with such 
a cold, sarcastic smile. 

'< What a barbarous, unfeeling monster ! " perhaps I hear 
some one exclaim. 

No, he was not. . He could be veiy kind and indulgent He 
had been kind and generous to me. He gave me my tuition, 
and had taken unwearied pains with my lessons. He could for- 
give great offences, but had no toleration for little follies. He 
really thought it a sinful waste of time to write poetry in 
school. He had given me a subject for composition, a useful, 
practical one, but not at all to my taste, and I had ventured to 
disregard it I had jumped over the rock, and climbed up to 
the flowers that grew above it He was a thorough mathemati- 
^cian, a celebrated grammarian, a renowned geographer and lin- 
guist, but I then thought he had no more ear for poetry or 
music, no more eye for painting, — the painting of God, or 
man, — than the stalled ox, or the Greenland seal. I did him 
injustice, and he was unjust to me. I had not intended to slight 
or scorn the selection he had made, but I could not write upon 
it, — I could not help my thoughts flowing into rhyme. 

Can the stream help gliding and rippling through its flowery 
margins ? Can the bird help singing and warbling upward into 
the deep blue sky, sending down a silver shower of melody as 
it flies ? 

Perhaps some may think I am swelling small things into 
great; but incidents and actions are to be judged by their re- 
sults, by their influence in the formation of character, and the 
hues they reflect on futurity. Had I received encouragement 
instead of rebuke, praise instead of ridicule, — had he taken 
me by the hand and spoken some such kindly words as these : — 

" This is very well for a little girl like you. Lift up that 
downcast face, nor blush and tremble, as if detected in a guilty 
act. You must not spend tod much time in the reveries of 
imagination, for this is' a woFlig|May world, my child. Even 
the birds have to build th.ei]flH|||^ and the coral insect is a 
mighty laborer. The gifl of «Hw sweet, and may be made 

• Ik ^ . . 



EBKEST LIKWOOD. 9 

an instrament of the Creator's glory. The first notes of the 
lark are feeble, compared to his heaven-high strains. The 
fidnter dawn precedes the risen day." 

Oh ! had he addressed me in indulgent words as these, who 
knows but that, like burning Sappho, I might have sang as well 
as loved ? Who knows but that the golden gates of the Eden 
of immortality might have opened to admit the wandering Peri 
to her long-lost home ? I might have been the priestess of a 
shrine of Delphic celebrity, and the world have offered burning 
incense at my altar. I might have won the laurel crown, and 
found, perchance, thorns hidden under its triumphant leaves. 
I might, — but it matters not. The divine spark is undying, 
and though circumstances may smother the fame it enkindles, 
it glows in the bosom with unquenchable fire. 

I remember veny||dMkhat the master said, instead of the 
imagined words ^^^^^^Ren. 

^ Poetry, is it ^^^^Kmething you meant to be called by 
tliat name ? NonsSBeTchild — folly — moon-b^mi hallucina- 
tion ! Child ! do you know that this is an^mpardonable 
waste of time ? Do you ren^ember that opportunities of im- 
provement are given you to enable you hereafter to secure an 
honorable independence ? This accounts for your reveries over 
the blackboard, your indifference to mathematics, that grand 
and glorious science ! Poetry ! ha, ha ! I began to think you 
did not understand the use of capitals, — ha, ha ! *' 

Did you ever imagine how a tender loaf of bread must feel 
when cut into slices by the sharpened knife? How the young 
bark feels when the iron wedge is driven through it with cleav- 
ing force ? I think / can, by the experience of that hour. I 
stood with quivering lip, burning cheek, and panting breast, — 
my eyes riveted on the paper which he flourished in his left 
hand, pointing at it with the forefinger of his right. 

** He shall not go on," — said I to myself, exasperation giv- 
ing me boldness, — "he shall not read what I have written of 
my mother. I will die sooner. He may insult m^ poverty, 
bat hers shall be sacred, and her sorrows too." 

I sprang forward, forgetting every thing in the fear of hear- 




10 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

ing her name associated with derision, and attempted to get pos- 
session of the manascript. A fiy might as well attempt to wring 
the trunk of the elephant 

<< Realljy little poetess, 70a are getting bold. I should like to 
see 70U try that again. You had better keep quiet." 

A resolute glance of the keen, black eye, resolute, yet twink- 
ling with secret merriment, and he was about to commence 
another stanza. 

I jumped up with the leap of the panther. I could not loosen 
his strong grasp, but I tore the paper from round his fingers, 
ran down the steps through the rows of desks and benches, 
without looking to the right or left, and flew without bonnet or 
covering out into the broad sunlight and open air. 

" Come back, this moment I " 

The thundering voice of the ii^^kH|^ed after me, like a 
heavy stone, threatening to crush l^^^^|p)lled. I bounded 
on before it with constantly acceleral 

" Go bad^— never ! " 

I said thiRo myself. I repeated it aloud to the breeze that 
came coolly and soothingly through the green boughs, to fan 
the burning cheeks of the fugitive. At length the dread of 
pursuit subsiding, I slackened my steps, and cast a furtive 
glance behind me. The cupola of the academy gleamed white 
through the oak trees that surrounded it, and above them the 
glittering vane, fashioned in the form of a giant pen, seemed 
writing on the azure page of heaven. 

My home, — the little cottage in the woods, was one mile dis- 
tant. There was a by-path, a foot-path, as it was called, which 
cut the woods in a diagonal line, and which had been trodden 
hard and smooth by the feet of the children. Even at mid-day 
there was twilight in that solitary path, and when the shadows 
deepened and lengthened on the plain, they concentrated into 
gloominess there. The moment I turned into that path, I was 
supreme. It was mine. The public road, the thoroughfare 
leading through the heart of the town, belonged to the world. 
I was obliged to walk there like other people, with mincing 
steps, and bonnet tied primly under the chin, according to the 



EBNEST LIXWOOD* 11 

rule and plummet line of school-girl propriety. But in my 
own little bj-path, I could do just as I pleased. I could run 
with my bonnet swinging in my hand, and my hair floating like 
the wild vine of the woods. I could throw myself down on the 
grass at the foot of the great trees, and looking up into the 
deep, distant sky, indulge my own wdndrous imaginings. 

I did so now. I cast myself panting on the turf, and turning 
my face downward instead of upward, clasped my hands over it, 
and the hot tears gushed in scalding streams through my fingers, 
till the pillow of earth was all wet as with a shower. 

Oh, they did me good, those fast-gushing tears ! There was 
comfort, there was luxury in them. Bless Gk)d for tears I How 
they cool the dry and sultry heart I How they refresh the 
fiunting Tirtues I How they revive the dying affections I 

The image of my jpJbD; sweet, gentle mother rose sofUy 
through the falling dM^ A rainbow seemed to crown her 
with its sevenfold beams. 

Dear mother! — would she will me to go back where the 
giant pen dipped its glittering nib into the deep blue ether ? 



/ 



CHAPTER II. 

^^ Get up, Gabriella, — you must not lie here on the damp 
ground. Get up, — it is almost night What tviU your mother 
say ? what will she think has become of you ? " 

I started up, bewildered and alarmed, passing my hands 
dreamily over my swollen eyelids. Heavy shadows hung over 
the woods. Night was indeed approacbing. I had fallen into 
a deep sleep, and knew it not. 

It was Richard Clyde who awakened me. His schoolmaster 
called him Dick, but I thought it sounded vulgar, and he was 
always Richard to me. A boy of fifteen, the hardest student 
in the academy, and, next to my mother and Peggy, the best 
friend I had in the world. I had no brother, and many a time 
had he acted a brother's part, when I had needed a manly 
champion. Tet my mother had enjoined on me such strict re- 
serve in my intercourse with the boy pupils, and my disposition 
was so shy, our acquaintance had never approached familiarity. 

^ I did not mean to shake you so hard," said he, stepping 
back a few paces as. he spoke, '^but I never knew any one sleep 
so like a log before. I feared for a moment that you were 
dead." 

" It would not be much matter if I were," I answered, hardly 
knowing what I said, for a dull weight pressed on my brain, 
and despondency had succeeded excitement. 

" Oh, Grabriella ! is it not wicked to say that ? " 

^* J£ you had been treated as badly as I have, you would feel 
like saying it too," 

" Yes I " he exclaimed, energetically, "you have been treated 
badly, shamefully, and I told the master so to his ^ce." 

(12) 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 13 

" You ! You did not, Richard. You only thought so. You 
would not have told him so for all the world." 

" But I did, though I As soon as you ran out of school, it 
seemed as if he made but one step to the door, and his face 
looked as black as night. I thought if he overtook you, he 
mighty — I did not know what he would do, he was so angry, 
I sat near the door, and I jumped right up and faced him on 
the threshold. Don % sir, don 't ! I cried ; she is a little girl, 
and you a great strong man." 

** ' What is that to you, sirrah ? ' he exclaimed, and the forked 
lightning ran out of his eye right down my backbone. It aches 
yet, Gabriella. 

'^ It is a great deal, Sir, I answered, as bold as a lion. You 
have treated her cruelly enough already. It would be cowardly 
to pursue her." 

^ Oh, Richard ! how dared you say that ? Did he not strike 
you ? " 

^ He lif\ed his hand ; but instead of flinching, I made myself 
as tall as I could, and looked at him right steadfastly. You 
do not know how pale he looked, when I stopped him on the 
threshold. His very lips turned white — I declare there is 
something grand in a great passion. It makes one look some- 
how so different from common folks. Well, now, as soon as he 
raised his hand to strike me, a red flush shot into his face, like 
the blaze of an inward fire. It was shame, — anger made him 
white — but shame turned him as red as blood. His arm drop- 
ped down to his side, — then he laid his hand on the top of his 
head, — * Stay after school,' said he, * I must talk with you.' " 

" And did you ? " I asked, hanging with breathless interest 
on his words." 

« Yes ; I have just left him." 

" He has not expelled you, Richard ? " 

** No ; but he says I must ask his pardon before the whole 
school to-morrow. It amounts to the same thing. I will never 
doit." 

^ I am 80 sorry this has happened," said I. ^ Oh I that I had 

2 



14 ERNEST LINWOOD 

never written that foolish, foolish poetry. It has done so much 
mischief." 

'< You are not to blame, Gabriella. He had no business to 
laugh at it; it was beautiful — all the boys say so. I have 
no doubt you will be a great poetess one of these days. He 
ought to have been proud of it, instead of making fun of you. 
It was so mean." 

" But you must go back to school, Richardi You are the 
best scholar. The master is proud of you, and will not give 
you up. I would not have it said that /was the cause of your 
leaving, for twice your weight in solid gold." 

" Would you not despise me if I asked pardon, when I have 
done no wrong ; to appear ashamed of what I glory in ; to act 
the part of a cow^u^l, afler publicly proclaiming him to be 
one?" 

" It is hard," said I, « but—" 

We were walking homeward all the while we were talking, 
and at every step my spirits sank lower and lower. How differ- 
ent every thing seemed now, from what it did an hour ago. 
True, I had been treated with harshness, but I had no riglit to 
rebel as I had done. Had I kissed the rod, it would have lost 
its sting, — had I borne the &mai*t with patience and gentle- 
ness, my companions would have sympathized with and pitied 
me; it would not have been known beyond the walls of the 
academy. But now, it would be blazoned through the whole 
town. The expulsion of so distinguished a scholar as Richard 
Clyde wo|||l be the nine days' gossip, the village wonder. And 
I shoul4 be pointed out as the presumptuous child, whose dis- 
appointed vanity, irascibility, and passion had created rebellion 
and strife in a hitherto peaceful seminary. I, the recipient of 
the master's favors, an ingrate and a wretch ! My mother would 
know this — my gentle, pale-faced mother. 

Our little cottage was now visible, with its low walls of gray- 
ish white, and viae-encircled windows. 

" Richard," said I, walking as slowly as possible, though it 
was growing darker every moment, " I feel very unhappy. I 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 15 

will go and see the master in the morning and ask him to punish 
me for both. I will humble myself for your sake, for you have 
been my champion, and I never will forget it as long as I live. 
I was wrong to rush out of school as I did, — wrong to tear 
the paper from his hands, — and I am willing to tell him so 
now. It shall all be right yet, Richard, — indeed it shall." 

^ Ton shall not humble yourself for me, Grabriella ; I like a 
girl of spirit." 

We had now reached the little gate that opened into our own 
green yard. I could see my mother looking from the window for 
her truant child. My heart began to palpitate, for no Catholic ever 
made more faithful confessions to his absolving priest, than I to 
my only parent. Were I capable of concealing any thing from 
her, I should have thought myself false and deceitful. With feel- 
ings of love and reverence kindred to those with which I re- 
g:irded ray Heavenly Father, I looked up to her, the incarnate 
angel of my life. This expression has been so often used it 
do*^ not seem to mean much ; but when I say it, I mean all the 
filial heart is capable of feeling. I was poor in fortune, but 
in her goodness rich. I wis a lonely child, but sad and pen 
sive as she was, she was a fountain of social joy to me. Then, 
she was so beautiful — so very, very lovely I 

I caught the light of her pensive smile through the dimness 
of the hour. She was so accustomed to my roaming in the 
woods, she had suffered no alarm. 

'* If ray mother thinks it right, you will not object to my 
going to see Mr. liegulus," said I, as Richard lift^ the gate- 
latch for me to enter. 

*• For yourself, no ; but not for me. I can take care of myself, 
Gabriella." 

He s(K)ke proudly. He did not quite come up to my childish 
idea of a boy hero, but I admired his self-reliance and bravery. 
I did not want him to despise me or my lack of spirit I began 
to waver in my good resolution. 

My mother called me, in that soft, gentle tone, so full of 
music and of love. 

In ten minutes I had told her alL 



Wi^.^ 



CHAPTER III. 

If I thought any language of mine could do justice to her 
character, I would try to describe my mother. Were I to speak 
of her, my voice would choke at the mention of her name. 
As I write, a mist gathers over my eyes. Grief for the loss of 
such a being is inmiortal, as the love of which it is bom. 

I have said that we were poor, — but ours was not abject 
poverty, hereditary poverty, — though /had never known afflu- 
ence, or even that sufficiency which casts out the fear of want. 
I knew that my mother was the child of wealth, and that she 
had been nurtured in elegance and splendor. I inherited from 
her the most fastidious tastes, without the means of gratifying 
them. I felt that I had a right to be wealthy, and that misfor- 
tune alone had made my mother poor, had made her an alien 
from her kindred and the scenes of her nativity. I felt a 
strange pride in this conviction. Indeed there was a singular 
union of pride and diffidence in my character, that kept me 
aloof from my young companions, and closed up the avenues to 
the social^MTS of childhood. 

My motner thought a school life would counteract the influ- 
ence of her own solitary habits and example. She did not 
wish me to be a hermit child, and for this reason accepted the 
offer Mr. Regulus made through the minister, to become a 
pupil in 'the academy. She might have sent me to the free 
schools in the neighborhood, but she did not wish me to form 
associations incompatible with the refinement she had so care- 
fully cultivated in me. She might have continued to teach me 
at home, for she was inistress of every accomplishment, but she 

thought the discipline of an institution like this would give tone 
(16) 



*■- 





ERNEST LINWOOD. 17 

and firmness to my poetic and dreaming mind. She wanted me 
to become practical, — she wanted to see dk bark growing and 
hardening over the exposed and delicate ^res. She anticipated 
for me the cold winds and beating rains of an adverse destiny. 
I knew she did, though she had never told me so in words. I 
read it in the anxious, wistful, prophetic expression of her soft, 
deep black eyes, whenever they rested on me. Those beautiful, 
mysterious eyes ! 

There was a mystery about her that gave power to her ez- 
eellence and beauty. Through the twilight shades of her sor- 
rowful loneliness, I could trace only the dim outline of her past 
life. I was fatherless, — and annihilation, as well as death, 
seemed the doom of him who had given me being. I was for- 
bidden to mention his name. No similitude of his features, no 
token of his existence, cherished by love and hallowed by rev- 
erence, invested him with the inmiortality of memory. It was 
as if he had never been. 

Thus mantled in mystery, his image assumed a sublimity and 
grandeur in my imagination, dark and oppressive as night. I 
would sit and ponder over his mystic attributes, tiU he seemed 
like those gods of mythology, who, veiling their divinity in 
cloud:^ came down and wooed the daughters of men. A being 
•0 lovely and good as my mother would never have loved a 
common mortal. Perhaps he was some royal exile, who had 
found her in his wanderings a beauteous flower, but dared not 
transplant her to the garden of kings. 

My mother little thought, when I sat in my single calico 
dress, my school-book open on my knees, conning my d^ly les- 
•on-*, or seeming so to do, what wild, absurd ideas were revelling 
in my brain. She little thought how high the " aspiring blood "* 
of mine mounted in that lowly, woodland cottage. 

I told her the history of my humiliation, passion, and flight, — 
of Richard Clyde's brave defence and undaunted resolution, 
— of my sorrow on his account, — of my shame and indignation 
CD my own. 

*• My poor Gabriella 1 ** 

** Yoa are not angry with me, my mother? ^ 

2» 



'm. 



18 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

"Angry! No, my child, it was a hard trial, — very hard 
for one so young. I did not think Mr. Regulus capable of so 
much unkindness. He has cancelled this day a debt of grati- 
tude." 

" My poor Gabriella,** she again repeated, laying her delicate 
hand gently on my head. " I fear you have a great deal to 
contend with in this rough world. The flowers of poesy are 
sweet, but poverty is a barren soil, my child. The dew that 
moistens it, is tears." 

I felt a tear on my hand as she spoke. Child as I was, I 
thought that tear more holy and precious than the dew of 
heaven. Flowers nurtured by such moisture must be sweet 

" I will never write any more," I exclaimed, with desperate 
resolution. " I will never more expose myself to ridicule and 
contempt." 

" Write as yon have hitherto done, for my gratification and 
your own. Tour simple strains have beguiled my lonely hours. 
But had I known your purpose, I would have warned you of 
the consequences. The child who attempts to soar above its 
companions is sure to be dragged down by the hand of envy. 
Your teacher saw in your effusion an unpardonable effort to rise 
above himself, — to diverge from the beaten track. You may 
have indulged too much in the dreams of imagination. You 
may have neglected your duties as a pupil. Lay your hand on 
your heart and ask it to reply." 

She spoke so calmly, so sootliingly, so rationally, the fever 
of imagii^on subsided. I saw the triumph of reason and 
principle in her own self-control, — for, when I was describing 
the scene, her mild eye flashed, and her pale cheek colored with 
an unwonted depth of hue. She had to struggle with her own 
emotions, that she might subdue mine. 

" May I ask him to pardon Richard Clyde, mother ? " 

" The act would become your gratitude, but I fear it would 
avail nothing. If he has required submission of him, he will 
hardly accept yours as a substitute." 

** Must I ask him to forgive me ? Must I return ? " 

I hung breathlessly on her reply. 



J 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 19 

" Wait till morning, my daughter. We shall both feel difFer- 
entlj then. I would not have you yield to the dictates of pas- 
sioD, neither would I have you forfeit your self-respect I must 
not rashly counsel." 

^ I would not let her go back at alV' exclaimed a firm, de- 
cided voice. '^They ain't fit to hold the water to wash her 
hands." 

•* Peggy," said my mother, rebukingly, " you forget yourself." 

" I always try to do that," she replied, while she placed on 
the table my customary supper of bread and milk. 

** Yes, indeed you do," answered my mother, gratefully, — 
^kind and faithful friend. But humility becometh my child 
better than pride." 

Peggy looked hard at my mother, with a mixture of rever- 
ence, pity, and admiration in her clear, honest eye, then taking 
a coarse towel, she rubbed a large silver spoon, till it shone 
brighter and brighter, and laid it by the side of my bowl. She 
had first spread a white napkin under it, to give my simple re- 
past an appearance of neatness and gentility. The bowl itself 
was white, with a wreath of roses round the rim, both inside 
and out. Those rosy garlands had been for years the delight 
of my eyes. I always hailed the appearance of the glowing 
leaves, when the milky fluid sunk below them, with a fresh ap- 
precixuion of their beauty. They gave an added relish to the 
Arcadian meal. They fed my love of the beautiful and the 
pure. That large, bright silver spoon, — I was never weary of 
admiring that also. It was massive — it was grand — and 
whispered a tale of former grandeur. Indeed, though the fur- 
niture of our cottage was of the simplest, plainest kind, there 
were many things indicative of an earlier state of luxury and 
elegance. My mother always used a golden thimble, — she 
had a toilet case inlaid with pearl, and many little articles ap- 
propriate only to wealth, and which wealth only purchases. 
These were never displayed, but I had seen them, and made 
them the comer-stones of many an airy castle. 



CHAPTER IV. 

And who was Peggy ? 

She was one of the best and noblest women God ever made* 
She was a treasury of heaven's own influences. 

And yet she wore the form of a servant, and like her divine 
Master, there was ^ no beauty " in her that one should desire to 
look upon her. 

She had followed my mother through good report and ill re- 
port. She had dung to her in her fallen fortunes as something 
sacred, almost divine. As the Hebrew to the ark of the cove- 
nant, — as the Greek to his country's palladium, — as the chil- 
dren of Freedom to the star-spangled banner, — so she clung in 
adversity to her whom in prosperity she almost worshipped. I 
learned in after years, all that we owed this humble, self-sacri- 
fi«iDg, devoted friend. I did not know it then — at least not all 
— not half. I knew that she labored most abundantly for us, — - j 
that she ministered to my mother with as much deference as i; 
if she were an empress, anticipating her slightest wants and *-. 
wishes, deprecating her gratitude, and seeming ashamed of her 
own goodness and industry. I knew that her plain sewing, 
assisted by my mother's elegant needle-work, furnished us the 
means of support ; but I had always known it so, and it seemed 
all natural and right. Peggy was strong and robust. The bur- 
den of toil rested lightly on her sturdy shoulders. It seemed to 
me that she was born with us and for us, — that she belonged 
to us as rightfully as the air we breathed, and the light that 
illumined us. It never entered my mind that we could live 
without Peggy, or that Peggy could live without us. 

My mother's health was very delicate. She could not sew 
long without pressing her hand on her aching side, and then 
Peggy would draw her work gently from her with her large, 

(20) 




EBNESTLIKWOOD. 21 

kind hand, make her lie down and rest, or walk out in the fresh 
air, till the waxen hue was enlivened on her pallid cheek. 
She would urge her to go into the garden and gather flowers 
for Gabriella, ** because the poor child loved so to see them in 
the room/' We had a sweet little garden, where Peggy delved 
at earlj sunrise and evening twilight Without ever seeming 
hurried or overtasked, she accomplished every thing. We had 
the earliest vegetables, and the latest. We had fruit, we had 
flowers, all the result of Peggy's untiring, providing hand. 
The surplus vegetables and fruit she carried to the village mar- 
ket, and though they brought but a trifle in a country town, 
where every thing was so abundant, yet Peggy said, ^ we must 
not despise the day of small gains." She took the lead in all 
business matters in-doors and out-doors. She never asked my 
mother if she had better do this and that; she went right 
ahead, doing what she thought right and best, in every thing 
pertaining to the drudgery of life. 

When I was a little child, I used to ask her many a questfon 
about the mystery of my life. I asked her about my father, of 
my kindred, and the place of my birth. 

** Miss Gabriella," she would answer, " you must n't ask que»- 
tions. Your mother does not wish it She has forbidden me 
to say one word of all you want to know. When you are old 
enough you shall learn every thing. Be quiet — be patient. It 
15 best that you should be. But of one thing rest assured, if 
ever there was a saint in this world, your mother is one." 

I never .doubted this. I should have doubted as soon the 
saintliness of those who wear the golden girdles of Paradise. 
I am glad of this. I have sometimes doubted the love and 
mercy of my Heavenly Father, but never the purity and excel- 
lence of my mother. Ah, yes I once when sorely tempted. 

We relire<l very early in our secluded, quiet home. We had 
no evening visitors to charm away the sober hours, and time 
marked by the sands of the hour-glass always seems to glide 
more slowly. That solemn-looking hour-glass ! How I used 
to gaze on each dropping particle, watching the upward segment 
gnuinally becoming more and more transparent, and the lower 



22 ERKEST LINWOOD. 

as gradually darkening. It was one of Peggy's inherited treas- 
ures, and she reverenced it next to her Bible. The glass had 
been broken and mended with putty, which formed a dark, 
diagonal line across the venerable crystal. This antique chro- 
nometer occupied the central place on the mantel-piece, its glid- 
ing sands, though voiceless, for ever whispering of ebbing time 
and everlasting peace. ^ Passing away, passing away," seemed 
continually issuing from each meeting cone. I have no doubt 
the contemplation of this ancient, solemn instrument, which old 
Father Time is always represented as grasping in one unclench 
ing hand, while he brandishes in the other the merciless scythe, 
had a lasting influence on my character. 

That night, it was long before I fell asleep. I lay awake 
thinking of the morning's dawn. The starlight abroad, that 
came in through the upper part of the windows, glimmered on 
the dark frame and glassy surface of the old timepiece, which 
stood out in bold relief from the whitewashed wall behind it. 
Before I knew it, I was composing a poem on that old hour- 
glass. It was a hoary pilgrim, travelling on a lone and sea-beat 
shore, towards a dim and distant goal, and the print of his foot- 
steps on the wave- washed sands, guided others in the same 
lengthening journey. The scene was before me. I saw the 
ancient traveller, his white locks streaming in the ocean blast; 
I heard the deep murmur of the restless tide ; I saw the foot- 
steps ; and they looked like sinking graves ; when all at once, 
in the midst of my solemn inspiration, a stern mocking face 
came between me and the starlight night, the jeering voice of 
my master was in my ears, a dishonored fragment was flutter- 
ing in my hand. The vision fled ; I turned my head on my 
pillow and wept. 

You may say such thoughts and visions were strangely pre- 
cocious in a child of twelve years old. I suppose they were ; 
but I never remember being a child. My sad, gentle mother, 
the sober, earnest, practical Peggy, were the companions of my 
infancy, instead of children of my own age. The sunlight of 
my young life was not reflected from the golden locks of child- 
hood, its radiant smile and undoaded eye* I was defrauded 




BBNB8T LINWOOD. 28 

of the sweetest boon of that early season, a confidence that this 
world is the happiest, fairest, best of worlds, the residence of 
joj, beauty, and goodness. 

A thoagbtful child ! I do not like to hear it. What has a 
little child to do with thought? That sad, though glorious re- 
TersioQ of our riper and darker years ? 

Ah me ! I never recollect the time that my spirit was not 
tniTelling to grasp some grown idea, to fathom the mystery of 
my being, to roll away the shadows that surrounded me, grop- 
ing for light, toiling, then dreaming, not resting. It was no 
wonder I was weary before my journey was well begun. 

''What a remari^able countenance Gabriella has!" I then 
often heard it remarked. *^ Her features are childish, but her 
eyes have such a peculiar depth of expression, — so wild, and 
yet so wise." 

I wish I had a picture of myself taken at this period of my 
life. I have no doubt I looked older then than I do now. 



CHAPTER V. 

I KNEW the path which led from the boarding-place of Mr. 
Hegulus crossed the one which I daily traversed. I met him 
exactly at the point of intersection, under the shadow of a 
great, old oak. The dew of the morning glittered on the shaded 
grass. The clear light blue of the morning sky smiled through 
upward quivering leaves. Every thing looked bright and buoy- 
ant, and as I walked on, girded with a resolute purpose, my 
spirit caught something of the animation and inspiration of the 
scene. 

The master saw me as I approached, and I expected to see a 
frown darken his brow. I felt brave, however, for I was about 
to plead for another, not myself. He did not frown, neither did 
he smile. He seemed willing to meet me, — he even slackened 
his pace till I came up. I felt a sultry glow on my cheek when 
I faced him, and my breath came quick and short I was not 
so very brave after all. 

" Master Regulus," said I, " do not expel Richard Clyde, — 
do not disgrace him, because he thought I was not kindly dealt 
with. I am sorry I ran from school as I did, — I am sorry I 
wrote the poem, — I hardly knew what I was doing when I 
-snatched the paper from your hands. I suppose Richard 
hardly knew what he was doing when he stopped you at the 
door." 

I did not look up while I was speaking, for had I met an 
angry glance I should have rebelled. 

'^ I am glad I have met you, Gabriella," said he, in a tone so 
gentle, I lifted my eyes in amazement. His beamed witji^^nn- 
sual kindness beneath his shading brows. Gone was the mock- 

(24) 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 25 

ing gleam^ — gone the deriding smile. He looked serious, 
earnest, almost sad, but not severe. Looking at his watch, and 
then at the golden vane, as if that too were a chronometer, he 
turned towards the old oak, and throwing himself carelessly on 
a seat formed of a broken branch, partially severed from the 
trunk, motioned me to sit down on the grass beside him. Quick 
as lightning I obeyed him, untying my bonnet and pushing it 
back from my head. I could scarcely believe the evidence of 
my senses. There reclined the formidable master, like a great, 
overgrown boy, his attitude alone banishing all restraint and 
fear, and I, perched on a mossy rock, that looked as if placed 
there on purpose for me to sit down upon, all my wounded and 
exasperated feelings completely drowned in a sudden overflow 
of pleasant emotions. I had expected scolding, rebuke, de- 
nial, — I had armed myself for a struggle of power, — I had 
resolved to hazard a martyr's doom. 

Oh, the magic of kindness on a child's heart ! — a lonely, sen- 
sitive, proud, yearning heart like mine ! — T 'is the witch-hazel 
wand that shows where the deep fountain is secretly welling. 
I was ashamed of the tears that would gather into my eyes. 
I shook my hair forward to cover them, and played with the 
green leaves within my reach. 

The awful space between me and this tall, stem, learned 
man seemed annihilated. I had never seen him before, divested 
of the insignia of authority, beyond the walls of the academy. 
I had always been compelled to look up to him before ; now 
we were on a level, on the green sward of the wild-wood. 
God above, nature around, no human faces near, no fear of 
man to check the promptings of ingenuous feeling. Softly the 
folded flower petals of the heart began to unfurl. The morning 
j>reeze caught their fragrance and bore it up to heaven. 

''You thought me harsh and unkind, Gabriella," said the 
master in a low, subdued voice, " and I fear I was so yester- 
day. I intended to do you good. I began sportively, but when 
I saw you getting excited and angry, I became angry and 
excited too. My temper, which is by no means gentle, had 
been previously much chafed, and, as is too oAen the case, the 

8 



26 ERNBSTLINWOOD. 

irritation, caused by the offences of many, burst forth on one, 
perhaps the most innocent of all. Little girl, you have been 
studying the history of France ; do you remember its Louises ? — 
Louis the Fourteenth was a profligate, unprincipled, selfish 
king. Louis the Fifleenth, another God-defying, self-adoring 
sensualist. Louis the Sixteenth one of the most amiable, just, 
Christian monarchs the world ever saw. Yet the accumulated 
wrongs under which the nation had been groaning during the 
reign of his predecessors, were to be avenged in his person, — 
innocent, heroic sufferer that he was. This is a most interest- 
ing historic fact, and bears out wonderfully the truth of Grod*8 
words. But I did not mean to give a lecture on history. It is 
out of place here. I meant to do you good yesterday, and 
discourage you from becoming an idle rhymer — a vain 
dreamer. You are not getting angry I hope, little girl, for I 
am kind now." 

'< No, sir, — no, indeed, sir,'' I answered, with my face all in a 
glow. 

'^ Your mother, I am told, wishes you to be educated for a 

teacher, a profession which requires as much training as the 

Spartan youth endured, when fitted to be the warriors of the 

land. Why, you should be preparing yourself a coat of mail, 

/ instead of embroidering a silken suit. How do you expect to 

I get through the world, child, — and it is a hard world to the poor, 

a cold world to the friendless, — how do you expect to get along 

through the briars and thorns, over the rocks and the hills with 

nothing but a blush on your cheek, a tear in your eye, and a 

( sentimental song on your lips? Independence is the reward 

of the working mind, the thinking brain, and the earnest 

heart." 

He grew really eloquent as he went on. He raised his head 
to an erect position, and ran his fingers through his bushy locks. 
I cannot remember all he said, but every word he uttered had 
meaning in it. I appreciated for the first time the difficulties 
and trials of a teacher's vocation. I had thought before, that 
it was the pupil only who bore the burden of endurance. It 
had never entered my mind that the crown of authority covered 



BRNB8T LIKWOOD. 27 

the thorns of care, that the wide sweep of command wearied 
more than the restraint of subjection. I was flattered by the 
manner in which he addressed me, the interest he expressed in 
mj future prospects. I found mjself talking freely to him of 
myself,* of my hopes and my fears. I forgot the tyrant of 
yesterday in the friend of to-day. I remember one thing he 
said, which is worth recording. 

** It is very unfortunate when a child, in consequence of a 
fiidlity of iiiaking rhyme, is led to believe herself a poetess, — 
or, in other words, a prodigy. She is praised and flattered by 
injudicious friends, till she becomes inflated by vanity and 
exalted by pride. She wanders idly, without aim or goal, in 
the flowery paths of poesy, forgetful of the great highway of 
knowledge, not made alone for the chariot wheels of kings, but 
the feet of the humblest wayfarer." 

When he began to address me, he remembered that I was a 
child, but before he finished the sentence he forgot my age, and 
his thoughts and language swelled and rose to the comprehension 
of manhood. But I understood him. Perhaps there was 
something in my fixed and fascinated glance that made him 
conscious of my full appreciation. 

**! have no friends to praise and flatter me," I simply 
answered. " I have loved to sing in rhyme as the little birds 
•ing, because God gave me the power." 

He looked pleased. He even laid his hand on my head and 
smiled. Not the cold smile of yesterday, but quite a genial 
smile. I could hardly believe it the same face, it softened and 
transformed it sa I involuntarily drew nearer to him, drawn 
by that powerful magnetism, which every human heart feels 
more or less. 

The great brazen tongue of the town clock rang discordantly 
on the sweet stillness of the morning hour. The master rose 
and motioned me to follow him. 

^ Richard Clyde is forgiven. Tell him so. Let the past be 
forgotten, or remembered only to make us wiser and better." 

We entered the academy together, to the astonishment of 



28 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

the pupils, who were gathered in little clusters, probably dis- 
cussing the events of yesterday. 

Richard Clyde was not there, but he came the next day, and 
the scene in which we were both such conspicuous actors was 
soon forgotten. It had, however, an abiding influence on me. 
A new motive for exertion was bom within me, — affection for 
my master, — and the consequence was, ambition to excel, 
that I might be rewarded by his approbation. 

Did he ever again treat me with harshness aM severity? 
No, — never. I have oflen wondered why he manifested such 
unusual and wanton disregard of my feelings then, that one, 
only time. It is no matter now. It is a single blot on a fair 
page. 

Man is a strangely inconsistent being. His soul is the battle 
ground of the warring angels of good and evil. As one or the 
other triumphs, he exhibits the passions of a demon or the 
attributes of a God. 

Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand ? 
What were the plains of Marathon, the pass of ThermopylsB, 
or Cann» paved with golden rings, compared to it ? 

Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment 
of struggle, but the pause that succeeds. The angels of good 
have triumphed, and though the plumage of their wings may 
droop, they are white and dazzling so as no ^^ fuller of earth 
could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests upon the 
battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled under 
feet. Strains of victorious music fioat in the air ; but it comes 
from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into 
rest, those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, 
that one can almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the 
ambrosial gales of heaven. 

Is this poetry ? Is it sacrilege ? If so, forgive me, thou great 
Inspirer of thought, — "my spirit would fain not wander from 
thee." 



CHAPTER VL 

Ths l]fe4F a school-girL presents but few salient points to 
arrest the interest It is true, eVery daj had its history, and 
ererj rising and setting son found something added to the 
Tolome of mj life. But there seems so little to describe I I 
oould go on for ever, giving utterance to thoughts that used to 
crowd in mj joung brain, thoughts that would startle as weU as 
amuse, — but I fear they might become monotonous to the 
reader. 

I had become a hard student My mother wished me to fit 
myself for a teacher. It was enough. 

It was not, however, without many struggles. I had ac- 
quired this submission to her wishes. Must I forever be a 
slave to hours ? Must I weave for others the chain whose daily 
restraint chafed and galled my free, impatient spirit ? Must I 
bear the awful burden of authority, that unlovely appendage to 
youth ? Must I voluntarily assume duties to which the task of 
the criminal that tramps, tramps day afler day the revolving 
tread-mill, seems light ; for that is mere physical labor and mo- 
notony, not the wear and tear of mind, heart, and soul ? 

** What else can you do, my child ? " asked my mother. 

** I could sew." 

My mother smiled and shook her head. 

''Your skill does not lie in handicraft," she said, ''that 
would never do." 

" I could toil as a servant I would far rather do it" 

I had worked myself up to a belief in my own sincerity when 
I said this, but had any tongue but mine suggested the idea, 
how would my aspiring blood have burned with indignation. 

" It If the most honorable path to independence a friendless 

8 • (W) 



80 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

young girl can choose, — almost the only one," said my mother, 
suppressing a deep sigh. 

^ Oh, mother I I am not friendless. How can I be, with you 
and Peggy ? " 

*< But we are not immortal, my child. Every day loosens 
my frail hold of earthly things, and even Peggy's strong arm 
will in time grow weak. Your young strength will then be her 
stay and support." 

'* Oh, mother ! as if I could live when you ar#taken from 
me ! What do I live for, but you ? What have I on earth 
but thee ? Other children have father and mother, and brothers 
and sisters, and friends. If one is taken from them, they have 
others left to love and care for them, but I have nobody in the 
wide world but you. I could not, would not live without you." 

I spoke with passionate earnestness. Life without my 
mother J The very thought was death ! I looked in her pale, 
beautiful face. It was more than pale, — it was wan — it was 
sickly. There was a purplish shadow under her soft, dark eyes, 
which I had not observed before, and her figure looked thin and 
drooping. I gazed into the sad, loving depths of her eyes, till 
mine were blinded with tears, when throwing my arms across 
her lap, I laid my face upon them, and wept and sobbed as if 
the doom of the motherless were already mine. 

^ Grief does not kill, my Gabriella," she said, tenderly 
caressing me. ^ It is astonishing how much the human heart 
can bear without breaking. Sorrow may dry up, drop by drop, 
the fountain of life, but it is generally the work of years. The 
heart lives, though every source of joy be dead, — lives with- 
out one wellspring of happiness to quench its burning thirst, — - 
lives in the midst of desolation, darkness, and despair. Oh, 
my Gabriella," she continued, with a burst of feeling that swept 
over her with irresistible power, and bowed her as before a 
stormy gust, " would to God that we might die together, — that 
the same almighty mandate would free us both from this 
prison-house of sorrow and of sin. I have prayed for resigna- 
tion, — I have prayed for faith ; but, O my Grod ! I am rebel- 
lious, I am weak, I have suffered and struggled so long." 




EBNE8T LINWOOD. 81 

She spoke in a tone of physical as well as mental agonj. I 
was looking up in her face, and it seemed as if a dark shadow 
rolled over it. I sprang to mj feet and screamed. Peggy, who 
was already on the threshold, caught her as she fell forward, 
and laid her on the bed as if she were a little child. She was 
in a fainting fit. I had seen her before in these deathlike 
swoons, but never had I watched with such shuddering dread to 
see the dawn of awakening life break upon her face. I stood 
at her pill^ scarcely less pale and cold than herself. 

^ This is all your doings. Miss Gabriella,'' muttered 
Peggy, while busily engaged in the task of restoration. ^ If 
you don't want to kill your mother, you must keep out of 
your tantrums. What 's the use of going on so, I wonder, — 
and what 's the use of my watching her as carefully as if she 
was made of glass, when you come like a young hurricane and 
break her into atoms. There, — go away and keep quiet Let 
her be till she gets over this turn. I know exactly what 's best 
for her." 

She spoke with authority, and I obeyed as if the Toice of a 
superior were addressing me. I obeyed, — but not till I had 
seen the hue of returning life steal over the marble pallor of 
her cheek. I wandered into the garden, but the narrow paths, 
the precise formed beds, the homely aspect of vegetable nature, 
filled me with a strange loathing. I felt suffocated, oppressed,— 
I jumped over the railing and plunged into the woods, — the 
wild, ample woods, — my home, — my wealth, — my God- 
granted inheritance. I sat down under the oaks, and fixed my 
eyes upwards on the mighty dome that seemed resting on the 
strong forest trees. I heard nothing but the soft rustling of 
the leaves, — I saw nothing but the lonely magnificence of 
nature. 

Here I became calm. It seemed a matter of perfect indiffer- 
ence to me then what I did, or what became of me, — whether 
I was henceforth to be a teacher, a seamstress, or a servant 
Every consideration was swallowed in one, — every fear lost in 
one absorbing dread. I had but one prayer, -^^ ^ Let my mother 
live, or let me die with her ! " 



82 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

Poverty offered no privation, toil no weariness, suffering no 
pang, compared to the one great evil which mj imagination 
grasped with firm and desperate clench. 

Three years had passed since I had lain a weeping child 
under the shadow of the oaks, smarting from the lash of de« 
rision, burning with shame, shrinking with humiliation. I was 
now tifleen years old, — at that age when youth turns trembling 
from the dizzy verge of childhood to a mother's guardian 
arms, a mother's sheltering heart. How weak, #[>w puerile 
now teemed the emotions, which three years ago had worn such 
a majestic semblance. 

I was but a foolish child then, — what was I now ? A 
child still, but somewhat wiser, not more worldly wise. I 
knew no more of the world, of what is called the world, than I 
did of those golden cities seen through the cloud-vistas of sun- 
set. It seemed as grand, as remote, and as inaccessible. 

At this moment I turned my gaze towards the distant cloud- 
turrets gleaming above, walls on which chariots and horsemen 
of fire seemed passing and repassing, and I was conscious of but 
one deep, earnest thought, — " my mother I " 

One prayer, sole and agonizing, trembled on my lips : •— 

^ Take her not from me, O my God ! I will drink the cup 
of poverty and humiliation to the dregs if thou wilt, without a 
murmur, but spare, O spare my mother ! " 

God did spare her for a little while. The dark hands on the 
dial-plate of destiny once moved back at the mighty breath of 
prayer. 



CHAPTER VII. 

^ Gabriella, — is it you ? How glad I am to see 70a ! " 
Thai clear, distinct, ringing voice ! — I knew it weU, though 
a year had passed since I had heard its sound. The three 
jears which made me, as I said before, a mser child, had ma- 
tared mj champion, the boy of fifteen, into a youth of eighteen, 
a collegian of great promise and signal endowments. I feh 
very sorry when he left the academy, for he had been my 
steadfast friend and defender, and a great assistant in my 
scholastic tasks. But afler he entered a college, I felt as if 
there were a great gulf between us, nerer more to be passed 
oTer. I had very superb ideas of collegians. I had seen 
them during their holidays, which they frequently came into 
the country to spend, dashing through the streets like the wild 
huntsmen, on horses that struck fire as they fiew along. I had 
seen them lounging in the streets, with long, wild hair, and 
corsair visages and Byronian collars, and imagined them a 
most formidable race of beings. I did not know that these 
were the scapegoats of their class, suspended for rebellion, or 
expelled for greater offences, — that having lost their character 
as students, they were resolved to distinguish themselves as 
dandies, the lowest ambition a son of Adam's race can feel. It 
is true, I did not dream that Richard Clyde could be trans- 
formed into their image, but I thought some marvellous change 
must take place, which would henceforth render him as much a 
stranger to me as though we had never met. 

Now, when I heard the clear, glad accents of his voice, so 
natural, so unchanged, I looked up with a glance of delighted 
recognition into the young student's manly face. My first sen 



84 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

sat ion was pleasure, the pleasure which congenial youth in- 
spires, my next shame, for the homeliness of my occupation* 
I was standing by a beautiful bubbling spring, at the foot of a 
little hill near my mother's cottage. The welling spring, the 
rock over which it gushed, the trees which bent their branches 
over the fountain to guard it from the sunbeams, the sweet mu- 
sic of the falling waters, — all these were romantic and pictu- 
resque. I might imagine myself^ a nymph, a naiad, or a grace." 
Or, had I carried a pitcher in my hand, I might have thought 
myself another Bebecca, and poised on my shoulder the not 
ungraceful burden. But I was dipping water from the spring, 
in a tin pail, of a broad, clumsy, unclassic form, — too heavy 
for the shoulder, and extremely difficult to carry in the 
hand, in consequence of the small, wiry handle. In my confu- 
sion I dropped the pail, which went gaily floating to the opposite 
side of the spring, entirely out of my reach. The strong, bub- 
bling current bore it upward, and it danced and sparkled and 
turned its sides of mimic silver, first one way and then the other, 
as if rejoicing in its liberty. 

Richard laughed, his old merry laugh, and jumping on the 
rock over which the waters were leaping, caught the pail, and 
waved it as a trophy over his head. Then stooping down he 
filled it to the brim, gave one spring to the spot where I stood, 
whirled the bucket upside down and set it down on the grass 
without spilling a drop. 

" That is too large and heavy for you to carry, Gabriella,** 
said he. ^ Look at the palm of your hand, there is quite a red 
groove there made by that iron handle." 

'^ Never mind," I answered, twisting my handkercl^f care- 
lessly round the tingling palm, ^< I must get used to it. Peggy 
is sick and there is no one to carry water now but myselfl 
When she is well, she will never let me do any thing of the 
kind." 

^^ You should not," said he, decidedly. '^ You are not strong 
enough, — you must get another servant. — I will inquire in the 
village myself this morning, and send you one." 

^' O no, my mother would never consent to a stranger coming 




BRNE8T LIHWOOD. 85 

into tlie familj. Besides, no one conld take Peggy's place. 
Sbe is less a senrani than a friend." 

I tamed awaj to hide the tears that I could not keep back. 
Peggy's illness, though not of an alarming character, showed that 
even her iron constitution was not exempt from the ills which 
flesh is heir to, — that the strong pillar on which we leaned so 
trustingly could Tibrate and shake, and what would become of 
us if it were prostrated to the earth ; the lonely column of 
fideli^ and truth, to which we dung so adhesively ; the sheet 
anchor which had kept us from sinking beneath the waves of 
adversity ? I had scarcely realized Peggy's mortality before, 
she seemed so strong, so energetic, so untiring. I would as 
soon have thought of the sun's being weary in its mighty task 
as of Peggy's strong arm waxing weak. I felt very sad, and 
the meeting with Richard Clyde, which had excited a momen- 
tary joy, now deepened my sadness. He looked so bright, so 
prosperous, so full of hope and life. He was no longer the 
school-boy whom I could meet on equal terms, but the student 
entered on a public career of honor and distinction, — the son of 
ambition, whose gaze was already fixed on the distant hill-top» 
of £une. There was nothing in his countenance or manner 
that gave this impression, but my own morbid sensitiveness. 
The dawning feelings of womanhood made me blush for the 
plainness and childishness of my dress, and then I was ashamed 
of my shame, and blushed the more deeply. 

^ I am glad to see you again," I said, stooping to raise my 
hrinmiing pail, — ^I suppose I must not call you Richard 
now." 

**' Yes, indeed, I hope and trust none of my old friends will 
begin to Mr. Clyde me for a long time to come, and least, I 
mean most of all, you, Gabriella. We were always such ex- 
ceedingly good friends, you know. But don't be in such a 
hurry, I have a thousand questions to ask, a thousand things 
totelL" 

^ I should love to hear them all, Richard, but I cannot keep 
mj mother waiting." 

Before I could get hold of the handle of the pail, he had 



86 EBNE8TLINW00D. 

seized it and was swinging it along with as much ease as if he 
had a bunch of roses in his hand. We ascended the little hill 
together, he talking all the time, in a spirited, joyous manner, 
laughing at his awkwardness as he stumbled against a rolling 
stone, wishing he was a school-boy again in the old academy, 
whose golden vane was once an object of such awe and admo- 
nition in his eyes. 

" By the way, Gabriella," he asked, changing from subject 
to subject with marvellous rapidity, " do you ever write poetry 
now ? " 

<' I have given that up, as one of the follies of my childhood, 
one of the dreams of my youth." 

" Really, you must be a very venerable person, — you talk 
of the youthful follies you have discarded, the dreams from 
which you have awakened, as if you were a real centenarian. 
I wonder if there are not some incipient wrinkles on your 
face." 

He looked at me earnestly, saucily ; and I involuntarily pat 
up my hands, as if to hide the traces of care his imagination 
was drawing. 

'^ I really do feel old sometimes," said I, smiling at the mock 
scrutiny of his gaze, '^ and it is well I do. You know I am 
going to be a teacher, and youth will be my greatest objection." 

*^ No, no, I do not want you to be a teacher. You were 
not born for one. You will not be happy as one, — you are 
too impulsive, too sensitive, too poetic in your temperament. 
You are the last person in the world who ought to think of such 
a vocation." 

'^ Would you advise me, then, to be a hewer of wood and a 
drawer of water, in preference ? " 

^^ I would advise you to continue your studies, to read, write 
poetry, ramble about the woods and commune with nature, as 
you so love to do, and not think of assuming the duties of a 
woman, while you are yet nothing but a child. Oh I it is the 
most melancholy thing in the world to me, to see a person try- 
ing to get beyond their years. You must not do it, Gabriella. 
I wish I could make you stop thinking for one year. I d^ not 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 37 

like to see a cheek as young as yours pale with oyermuch 
Uioaght. Do you know you are getting very like your mother ? " 

^ My mother ! " I exclaimed, with a glow of pleasure at the 
fancied resemblance, '^ why, she is the most beautiful person I 
have yet seen, — there is, there can be no likeness." 

^ But there is, though. You speak as if you thought your- 
self quite ugly. I wonder if you do. Ugly and old. Strange 
self-estimation for a pretty girl of fiAcen ! " 

^ I suppose you learn to flatter in college," said I, '' but I do 
not care about being flattered, I assure you." 

^ You are very much mistaken if you think I am trying to 
flatter you. I may do so a year or two hence if- 1 chance to 
meet you in company, but here, in this rural solitude, with the 
very element of truth in my hand, I could not deceive, if I 
were the most accomplished courtier in the world." 

TVe had reached the top of the green acclivity which we 
bad been ascending, I fear with somewhat tardy steps. We 
could see the road through an opening in the trees, — a road 
little travelled, but leading to the central street of the town. 
The unusual sound of carriage wheels made me turn my head in 
that direction, and a simultaneous exclamation of Richard's 
fixed my attention. 

A very elegant carriage, drawn by a pair of large shining 
bay horses was rolling along with aristocratic slowness. The 
silver-plated harness glittered so in the sun, it at first dazzled 
my eyes, so that I could discern nothing distinctly. Then I 
saw the figures of two ladies seated on the back seat in light, 
airy dresses, and of two gentlemen on horseback, riding be- 
hind. 1 liad but a glimpse of all this, for the carriage rolled 
on. The riders disappeared ; but, as a flash of lightning reveals 
to us glimpses of the cloud cities of heaven which we remem- 
ber long at\er the electric gates are closed, so the vision 
remained on my memory, and had I never again beheld the 
jouthful form nearest to us, 1 should remember it still. It 
was that of a young girl, with very fair flaxen hair, curling in 
profuse ringlets on each side of her face, which was exquisite- 
ly fiur, and lighted up with a soft rosiness like the dawning of 

4 



38 EftNEST LINWOOD. 

morniDg. A blao scarf, of the color of her eyes, floated over 
her shoulders and fluttered from the window of the carriage. 
As I gazed on this bright apparition, Richard, to mj astonish- 
ment, lifted his hat from his brow and bowed low to the smiling 
stranger, who returned the salutation with graceful ease. The 
lady on the opposite side was hidden by the fair-haired girl, and 
both were soon hidden by the thick branches that curtained the 
road. 

'< The Linwoods ! " said Richard, glancing merrily at the tin 
pail, which shone so conspicuously bright in the sunshine. 
" You must have heard of them ? '* 

" Never." 

^Not heard of the new-comers! Havn't you heard that 
Mrs. Linwood has purchased the famous old Grandison Place, 
that has stood so long in solitary grandeur, had it fitted up in 
modem style, and taken possession of it for a country residence ? 
Is it possible that you are such a little nun, that you have 
heard nothing of this ? " 

'^ I go nowhere ; no one comes to see us ; I might as well 
be a nun." 

"But at school?" 

'^ I have not been since last autumn. But that fair, beautiful 
young lady, is she a daughter of Mrs. Linwood ? " 

^ She is, — Edith Linwood. Rather a romantic naine, is 
it not ? Do you think her beautiful ? " 

" The loveliest creature I ever looked upon. I should be 
quite miserable if I thought I never should look upon her 
again. And you know her, — she bowed to you. How sorry 
I am she should see you performing such an humble office for a 
little rustic like me I " 

" She will think none the worse of me for it If she did, I 
should despise her. But she is no heartless belle, — Edith Lin- 
wood is not. She is an angel of goodness and sweetness, if all 
they say of her be true. I do not know her very welL She 
has a brother with whom I am slightly acquainted, and through 
him I have been introduced into the family. Mrs. Linwood is 
a noble, excellent woman, — I wish you knew her. I wish you 




ERNEST LiNWOOD. 89 

hew Edith, — I wish you knew them all. They would appre- 
ciate jou. I am sure they would." 

^ / know them ! " I exclaimed, glancing ai our lowly cottage, 
my simple dress, and contrasting them mentally with the lordly 
dwelling and costly apparel of these faTorites of nature and of 
fiMiune. '^ They appreciate me I " 

^ I suppose you think Edith Linwood the most enviable of 
human beings. lUch, lovely, with the power of gratifying every 
wish, and of dispensing every good, she would gladly ex- 
change this moment with you, and dip water firom yon bubbling 
spring.'' 

** Impossible ! " I cried. ^ How can she help being happy ? " 

** She does seem happy, but she is lame, and her health is 
▼ery delicate. She cannot walk one step without crutches, on 
which she swings herself along very lightly and gracefully, it is 
true ; but think you not she would not give all her wealth to 
be able to walk with your bounding steps, and have your elastic 
frame?" 

•* Crutches ! " said I, sorrowfully, " why she looked as if she 
might have wings on her shoulders. It is sad." 

^ She is not an object of pity. You will not think she is 
when you know her. I only wanted to convince you, that you 
might be an object of envy to one who seems so enviable to 
you." 

I would gladly have lingered where I was, within the sound 
of Richard Clyde's frank and cheerful voice, but I thought of 
poor Peggy thirsting for a cooling draught, and my conscience 
smote me for being a laggard in my duty. It is true, the scene, 
which may seem long in description, passed in a very brief 
space of time, and though Richard said a good many things, he 
talked very fast, without seeming hurried either. 

'^ I shall see you again at the spring," said he, as he turned 
finom the gate. ^ You must consider me as the Aquarius of 
your domestic Zodiac. I should like to be my father's camel- 
driver, if that were Jacob's well." 

I could not help smiling at his gay nonsense, — his presence 
hmd been so brightening, so comforting. I had gone down to 



40 ERNESTLIXWOOD. 

the Fpring sad and desponding. I returned with a countenance 
so lighted up, a color so heightened, that my mother looked at 
me with surprise. 

As soon as I had ministered to Peggy, who seemed mortified 
and ashamed because of her sickness, and distressed beyond 
measure at being waited upon. I told my mother of my inter- 
view with Richard, of his kindness in carrying the water, the 
vision of the splendid carriage, of its beautiful occupants, the 
fitting up of the old Grandison Place, and all that Richard had 
related to me. 

She listened with a troubled countenance. ^ Surely, young 
Clyde will not be so inconsiderate, so officious, as to induce 
those ladies to visit us ? " 

" No, indeed, mother. He is not officious. He knows you 
would not like to see them. He would not think of such a 
thing." 

" No, no," I repeated to myself, as I exerted myself bravely^ 
in my new offices, as nurse and housekeeper, " there is no dan- 
ger of that fair creature seeking out this little obscure spot. 
She will probably ask Richard Clyde who the little country 
girl was, whose water-pail he was so gallantly carrying, and I 
know he will speak kindly of me, though he will laugh at being 
caught in such an awkward predicament. Perhaps to amuse 
her, he will tell her of ray flight from the academy and the 
scenes which resulted, and she will ask him to show her the 
poem, rendered so immortal. Then merrily will her silver 
laughter ring through the lofty hall. I have wandered all over 
Grandison Place when it was a deserted mansion. No one saw 
me, for it is far back from the street, all embosomed in shade, 
and it reminded me of some old castle with its turreted roof 
and winding galleries. I wonder how it looks now." I was 
falling into one of my old-fashioned dreams, when a moan from 
Peggy wakened me, and I sprang to her bedside with re- 
newed alarm. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

Tes, Peggy was veiy sick ; but she would not acknowledge 
it. It was notliing bat a yiolent headache, — a sudden cold ; 
she would be up and doing in the morning. The doctor! 
No, indeed, she would have nothing to do with doctors. She 
had never taken a dose of medicine in her life, and never would, 
of her own freewilL Sage tea was worth all the pills and 
nostrums in the worl^ipOn the faith of her repeated assertions, 
that she felt a great deal better and would be quite well in the 
rooming, we slept, mj mother and myself, leaving the lamp 
dimly burning by the solemn httlM^ss. "^ :* 

About midnight we were^wakened bj the wild ravings of 
delirious agony, — thqi^JSffiunds so fearful |g themselves, so 
awful in the silence ^tj^^^^kness of night, so indescribably 
awful in tlie solitude of our lotlt^jjiiffilMug. 

Peggy had struggled with disease like ** the strong man pre- 
pared to run a race," but it had now seized her with giant 
grasp, and she lay helpless and writhing, with the fiery fluid 
burning in her veins, sending dark, red flashes to her cheeks 
and brow. Her eyes had a fierce, lurid glare, and she tossed 
her head from side to side on the pillow with the wild restless- 
ness of an imprisoned animal. 

^Good C^I" cried my mother, looking as white as the 
sheets, and fnibling all over as in an ague-fit. " What shall 
we do ? She will die unless a doctor can see her. Oh, my 
child, what can we do ? It is dreadful to be alone in the woods, 
when sickness and death are in the house." 

" / will go for the doctor, mother, if you are not afraid to stay 

4* («) 



42 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

alone with Peggy," cried I, in hurried accents, wrapping a 
shawl round me as I spoke. 

My mother wrung her hands. 

" Oh ! this is terrible," she exclaimed. " How dim and dark 
it looks abroad. I cannot let you go alone, at midnight. It 
cannot be less than a mile to Dr. Harlowe's. No, no ; I can- 
not let you go." 

" And Peggy must die, then. She must die who has served 
us so faithfully, and lived alone for us ! Oh, mother, let me go. 
I will fly on the wings of the wind. You will hardly miss me 
before I return. I am not afraid of the darkness. I am not 
afraid of the lonely woods. I only fear leaving you alone with 
her." 

** Gro," said my mother, in a faint voice. ** God will protect 
you. I feel that He will, my good, brave Grabriella." 

I kissed her white cheek with passionate tenderness, cast a 
glance of anguish on Peggy's fearfully *acltered face, then ran 
out into the chill, dark midnight At first I could scarcely dis- 
cern the sandy path I had so often trodden, for no moon lighted 
up the gloom of the hour,^nd ev^n the stars glimmered faintly 
through a grey and cloudy atmosphere. As I hurried along, 
the wind came sighing through the trees with such inexpressible 
sadness, it seemed whispering mournfully of the dark secrets of 
nature. Then it deepen^ into a dull, roaring sound, like the 
murmurs of the ocean tide ; hut even as I went on the melan- 
choly wind pursued me like an invisible spirit, winding around 
me its chill, embracing arms. 

I seemed the only living thing in the cold, illimitable night 
A thick horror brooded over me. The sky was a mighty pall, 
sweeping down with heavy cloud-fringes, the earth a wide 
grave. I did not fear, that is, I feared not man, or beast, or 
ghost, but an unspeakable awe and dread wasdMon me. I 
dreaded the great God, whose presence filled with slupportable 
grandeur the lonely night My heart was hard as granite. / 
could not have prayed, had I known that Peggy's life would be 
given in answer to my prayer. I could not say, " Our Father, 
who art in heaven," as I had so often done at my mother's knee. 



BBNE8T LINWOOD. 43 

in the sweet, childlike spirit of filial love and submission. My 
Father's face was hidden, and behind the thick doads of dark- 
ness I saw a stem, Tindictive Being, to whom the smoke of 
bomaa suffering was more acceptable than frankincense and 
mjrrh. 

I compared myself wandering alone in darkness and sorrow, 
on such an awful errand, to the fair, smiling being cradled in 
wealth, then doubtless sleeping in her bed of down, watched by 
attending menials. Oh ! rebel that I was, did I not need the 
diastening discipline, never exerted but in wisdom and in love ? 

Before I knew it, I was at Dr. Harlowe's door. All was 
duk and stilL The house was of brick, and it loomed up 
^oriously as I approached. It seemed to frown repulsively 
with its beetling eaves, as I lifted the knocker and let it fall with 
startling force. In a moment I heard footsteps moving and saw 
a light glimmering through the blinds. He was at home, then, — 
I had accomplbhed my mission. It was no matter if I died, 
since Peggy might be saved. I really thought I was going to 
die, I felt so dull and faint and breathless. I sunk down on the 
stone steps, just as the door was opened by Dr. Harlowe him- 
self, whom I had seen, but never addressed before. Placing 
his left hand above his eyes, he looked out, in search of the mes- 
senger who had roused him from his slumber. I tried to rise, 
but was too much exhausted. I could scarcely make my 
errand understood. I had run a mile without stopping, and 
now I had stopped, my limbs seemed turned into lead and my 
bead to ice. 

" My poor child ! " said the doctor, in the kindest manner 
imaginable. " You should not have come yourself at this hour. 
It was hardly safe. Why, — you have run yourself completely 
out of breath. Come in, while they are putting ray horse in 
the buggy. I must give t^ou some medicine before we start." 

He stooped down and almost lifted me from the step where 
I was seated, and led rac into what appeared to me quite a 
sumptuous apartment, being handsomely carpeted and Irnving 
long crimson curtains to the windows. He made me sit down 



44 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

on a sofa, while he went to a doset, and pouring out a generous 
glass of wine, insisted upon my drinking it. I obeyed him 
mechanically, for life seemed glowing in the ruddy fluid. It 
was. It came back in warmth to my chilled and sinking heart. 
I felt it stealing like a gentle fire through my whole system, — 
burning gently, steadily on my cheek, and kindling into light 
my heavy and tear-diomied eyes. It was the first glass I had 
ever tasted, and it ran like electricity through my veins. Had 
the doctor been aware of my previous abstinence, he might not 
have thought it safe to have offered me the brimming glass- 
Had I reflected one moment I should have swallowed it less 
eagerly ; but I seemed sinking, sinking into annihilation, when 
its reviving warmth restored me. I felt as if I had wings, and 
could fly over the dreary space my weary feet had so lately 
overcome. 

" You feel better, my dear," said the doctor, with a benevo- 
lent smile, as he watched the effect of his prescription. ^ You 
must not make so dangerous an experiment again as running 
such a distance at this time of night Peggy's life is very 
precious, I dare say, and so is yours. Are you ready to 
ride ? My buggy is not very large, but I think it will accom- 
modate us both. We will see." 

Though it was the first time I had ever spoken with Dr. 
Harlowe, I felt as much confidence in his kindness and benevo- 
lence as if I had known him for years. There was something 
so frank and genial about him, he seemed, like the wine I had 
been quaffing, warming to the heart There was barely room 
for me, slender as I was, for the carriage was constructed for 
the accommodation of the doctor alone ; but I did not feel 
embarrassed, or as if I were intruding. He drove very rapidly, 
conversing the whole time in a pleasant, cheering voice. 

" P^ggy must be a very valuable person," he said, " for you 
to venture out so bravely in her cause. We must cure her, by 
all means." 

I expatiated on her virtues with all the eloquence of gratitude. 
Something must have emboldened my shy tongue, — s(Mne- 




XBNE8T LINWOOD. 45 

thiog more tban the hope, bom of the doctor's heart-reviving 
words. 

^ He is come — he is come,** I exclaimed, springing from the 
boggy to the threshold, with the quickness of lightning. 

Oh ! how dim and sickly and sad every thing appeared in 
that little chamber ! I turned and looked at the doctor, won- 
dering if he had ever entered one so sad before. Peggy lay in 
an uneasy slumber, her arms thrown above her head, in a wild, 
nnoomfbrtable attitude. My mother sat leaning against the 
head of the bed, pale and statue-like, with her hand, white as 
marble, partly hidden in her dark and loosely braided hair. 
The doctor glanced at the bed, then at my mother, and his 
glance riveted on her. Surprise warmed into admiration, — 
admiration stood checked by reverence. He advanced a few 
steps into the room, and made her as lowly a bow as if she 
were an empress. She rose without speaking and motioned 
me to hand him a chair ; but waiving the offered civility, he 
went up to the side of the bed and laid his fingers quietly on the 
pulse of his patient. He stood gravely counting the ticking of 
life*s great chronometer, while my mother leaned forward with 
pale, parted lips, and I gazed upon him as if the issues of life 
and death were in his bands. 

^ I wish I had been called sooner," said he, with a slight 
contraction of the brows, ^ but we will do all we can to relieve 
her." 

He called for a basin and linen bandage, and taking a lancet 
from his pocket, held up the sharp, gleaming point to the light. 
I shuddered, I had never seen any one bled, and it seemed to 
me an awful operation. 

^ You will hold the basin,** said he, directing me with his 
calm, benignant eye. " You are a brave girl, — you will not 
shrink, as some foolish persons do, at the sight of blood. This 
side, if you please, my dear." 

Ashamed to forfeit the confidence he had in my bravery, or 
rather moral courage, I grasped the basin with both hands, and 
held it firm, though my lips quivered and my cheek blanched. 

Peggy, awakened by the pressure of the bandage, began to 



46 KRNEST LINWOOD. 

rave and struggle, and I feared it would be impossible to subdue 
her into sufficient quietness ; but delirious as she was, there 
was something in the calm, authoritatiTO tones of Dr. Harlowe's 
voice, that seemed irresistible. She became still, and lay with 
her half-closed eyes fixed magnetically on his face. As the 
dark-red blood spouted into the basin, I started, and would 
have recoiled had not a strong controlling influence been ex- 
erted over me. The gates of life were opened. How easy 
for life itself to pass away in that deep crimson tide I 

" This is the poetry of our profession," said the doctor, bind- 
ing up the wound with all a woman's gentleness. 

Poor Peggy, who could ever associate the idea of poetry with 
her ! I could not help smiling as I looked at her sturdy arm, 
through whose opaque surface the blue wandering of the veins 
was vainly sought 

'^ And now," said he, after giving her a comforting draught, 
^ she will sleep, and y(m must sleep, madam," turning respect- 
fully to my mother ; " you have not strength enough to resist 
fatigue, — your daughter will have two to nurse instead of one, 
if you do not follow ray advice." 

" I cannot sleep," replied my mother. 

" But you can rest, madam ; it is your duty. What did I 
come here for, but to relieve your cares? Gro with your 
mother, my dear, and afler a while you may come back and 
help me." 

" You are very kind, sir," she answered. With a graceful 
bend of the head she passed from the room, while his eyes fol- 
lowed her with an expression of intense interest. 

It is no wonder. Even I, accustomed as I ^as to watch her 
every motion, was struck by the exceeding grace of her manner. 
She did not ask the doctor what he thought of Peggy, though 
I saw the words trembling on her lips. She dared not do it. 

From that night the seclusion of our cottage home was broken 
up. Disease had entered and swept down the barriers of cir- 
cumstance curiosity had so long respected. We felt the draw- 
ings of that golden chain of sympathy which binds together the 
great family of mankind. 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 47 

Teggy'a disease was a fever, of a peculiar and malignant 
character. It was the first case which occurred ; but it spread 
through the town, so that scarcely a family was exempt from 
its ravages. Several died after a few days' sickness, and it was 
said purplish spots appeared after death, making ghostly con- 
trast with its livid pallor. The alarm and terror of the com- 
munity rendered it difficult to obtain nurses for the sick ; but, 
thanks to the benevolent exertions of Dr. Harlowe, we were 
never left alone. 

Richard Clyde, too, came every day, and sometimes two or 
three times a day to the spring, to know what he could do for 
OS. No brother could be kinder. Ah! how brightly, how 
vividly deeds of kindness stand out on the dark background of 
sickness and sorrow ! I never, never can forget that era of 
my existence, when the destroying angel seemed winnowing 
the valley with his terrible wings, — when human life was 
blown away as chaff before a strong wind. Strange ! the sky 
was as blue and benignant, the air as soft and serene, as if 
health and joy were revelling in the green-wood shade. The 
gentle rustling of the foliage, the sweet, glad warbling of the 
birds, the silver sparkling of the streamlets, and the calm, 
deep flowing of the distant river, all seemed in strange discord- 
ance with the throes of agony, the wail of sorrow, and the 
knell of death. 

It was the first time I had ever been brought face to face 
with sickness and pain. The constitutional fainting fits of my 
CDOther were indicative of weakness, and caused momentary ter- 
ror ; but how different to thb mysterious, terrible malady, this 
direct visitation from the Almighty I Here we could trace no 
second causes, no imprudence in diet, no exposure to the night 
air, no predisposing influences. It came sudden and powerful 
as the bolt of heaven. It came in sunshine and beauty, without 
herald and warning, whispering in deep, thrilling accents : ^ Bo 
still, and know that I am Grod." 



CHAPTER IX. 

I DO not wish to dwell too long on this sad page of my young 
life, but sad as it is, it is followed by another so dark, I know 
not whether my trembling hand should attempt to unfold it. 
Indeed, I fear I have commenced a task I had better have left 
alone. I know, however, I have scenes to relate full of the 
wildest romance, and that though what I have written may be 
childish and commonplace, I have that to relate which will in- 
terest, if the development of life's deepest passions have power 
to do so. 

The history of a human heart ! a true history of that 
mystery of mysteries I a description of that city of our God, 
more magnificent than the streets of the New Jerusalem I This 
is what I have commenced to write. I will go on. 

For nine days Peggy wrestled with the destroying angeL 
During that time, nineteen funerals had darkened the winding 
avenue which led to the graveyard, and she who was first at- 
tacked lingered last It was astonishing how my mother siis- 
tained herself during these days and nights of intense anxiety. 
She seemed unconscious of fatigue, passive, enduring as the 
marble statue she resembled. She ate nothing, — she did not 
sleep. I know not what supported her. Dr. Harlowe brought 
her some of that generous wine which had infused such life 
into my young veins, and forced her to swallow it, but it never 
brouglit any color to her hueless cheeks. 

On the morning of the ninth day, Peggy sunk into a desUh- 
like stupor. Her mind had wandered during all her sickness, 
though most of the time she lay in a deep lethargy, from which 
nothing could rouse her. 

(48) 




ERNESTLINWOOD. 49 

^ Go down to the spring and breathe the fresh air," sfud the 
doctor ; ^ there should be perfect quiet here, — a few hours will 
decide her fate." 

I went down to the spring, where the twilight shades were 
gathering. The air came with balmy freshness to mj anxious, 
feyerish brow. I scooped up the cold water in the hollow of 
mj hand and bathed my &ce. I shook my hair over my 
shoulders, and dashed the water over every disordered tress. 
I began to breathe more freely. The burning weight, the 
expression, the suffocation were passing away, but a dreary 
sense of misery, of coming desolation remained. I sat down 
on the long grass, and leaning my head on my clasped hands, 
watched the drops as they fell from my dropping hair on the 
moesy rock below. 

"^ Is it not too damp for you here ? " 

I knew Richard Clyde was by me, — I heard his light foot- 
steps on the sward, but I did not look up. 

'^ It is not as damp as the grave will be," I answered. 

" Do n't talk so, Grabriella, do n't. I cannot bear to hear you. 
This will be all over soon, and it will be to you like a dark and 
troubled dreanu" 

*^ Yes ; I know it will be all over soon. We shall all lie in 
the churchyard together, — Peggy, my mother, and I, — and you 
will plant a white rose over my mother's grave, will you not ? 
Not over mine. No flowers have bloomed for me in life, — it 
would be nothing to place them over my sleeping dust" 

** Gabriella ! You are excited, — you are ilL Give me your 
kmnd. I know you have a feverish pulse." 

I laid my hand on his, with an involuntary motion. Though 
it was moist with the drops that had been oozing over it, it had 
a burning heat He startled at its touch. 

** You are ill, — you are feverish ! " he cried. ** The close 
air of that little room has been killing you. I knew it would. 
You should have gone to Mrs. Linwood's, you and your mother, 
when she sent for you. Peggy would have been abundantly 
for." 

^ What, leave her here to die ! — her, so good, so faithful, and 

5 



50 BRMEST LINWOOD. 

affectionate, who would have died a thousand times over for us ! 
Oh Richard, how can you speak of such a thing ! Peggy is 
dying now, — I know tliat she is. I never looked on death, but 
I saw its shadow on her livid face. Why did Dr. Harlowe 
send me away ? I am not afraid to see her die. Hark ! mj 
mother calls me." 

I started up, but my head was dizzy, and I should have 
fallen had not Richard put his arm around me. 

'' Poor girl," said he, ^^ I wish I had a sister to be with and 
comfort you. These are dark hours for us all, for we feel the 
pressure of Grod Almighty's hand. I do not wonder that you 
are. crushed. You, so young and tender. But bear up, 
Gabriella. The dayspring will yet dawn, and the shadows flj 
away." 

So he kept talking, soothingly, kindly, keeping me out in the 
balminess and freshness of the evening, while the fever atmos- 
phere burned within. I knew not how long I sat. I knew not 
when I returned to the house. I have forgotten that. But I 
remember standing that night over a still, immovable form, on 
whose pale, peaceful brow, those purplish spots, of which 1 had 
heard in awful whispers, were distinctly visible. The tossing 
arms were crossed reposingly over the pulseless bosom, — r the 
restless limbs were rigid as stone. I remember seeing my 
mother, whom they tried to lead into another chamber, — my 
mother, usually so calm and placid, — throw herself wildly on that 
humble, fever-blasted form, and cling to it in an agony of despair. 
It was only by the exertion of main force that she was separated 
from it and carried to her own apartment There she fell into 
one of those deadly fainting fits, from which the faithful, affec- 
tionate Peggy had so often brought her back to life. 

Never shall I forget that awful night The cold presence of 
mortality in its most appalling form, the shadow of my mother's 
doom that was rolling heavily down upon me with prophetic 
darkness, the dismal preparations, the hurrying steps echoing so 
drearily through the midnight gloom ; the cold burden of life, 
the mystery of death, the omnipotence of Grod, the unfathom- 
ableness of Eternity, — all pressed upon me with such a 




SBNE8T LIKWOOD. 51 

crashing weight, my spirit gasped and feinted heneath the 
burden. 

One moment it seemed that worlds would not tempt me to 
look again on that shrouded form, so migestic in its dread im- 
mobility, — its odd, icy calmness, — then drawn by an awful fas- 
cination, I would gaze and gaze as if my straining eyes could 
penetrate the depths of that abyss, which no sounding line has 
ever reached. 

I saw her laid in her lowly grave. My mother, too, was 
there. Dr. Harlowe did every thing but command her to re- 
main at home, but she would not stay behind. 

^ I would follow her to her last home,** said she, ^ if 1 had to 
walk barefoot over m path of thorns." 

Only one sun rose on her unburied form, — its setting rays 
fell on m mound of freshly heaved sods, where a little while 
before was a mournful cavity. 

Mrs. Linwood sent her beautiful carriage to take us to the 
diurchyard. Slowly it rolled along behind the shadow of the 
dariL, flapping pall. Very few beside ourselves were present, 
so great a panic pervaded the community ; and very humble 
was the position Peggy occupied in the world. People won- 
dered at the greatness of our grief, for she was onli/ a servant. 
They did not know all that she was to us, — how could they ? 
Even I dreamed not then of the magnitude of our obligations. 

I never shall forget the countenance of my mother as she 
sat leaning from the carriage windows, for she was too feeble to 
stand during the burial, while I stood with Dr. Harlowe at the 
head of the grave. The sun was just sinking behind the blue 
undulation of the distant hills, and a mellow, golden lustre 
calmly settled on the level plain around us. It lighted up her 
pallid features with a kind of unearthly glow, similar to that 
which rested on the marble monuments gleaming through the 
weeping willows. Every thing looked as serene and lovely, 
as green and rejoicing, as if there were no such things as sick- 
ness and death in the world. 

My mother's eyes wandered slowly over the whole inclo- 
siire, shot in by the plain white railing, edged with black, «- 



52 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

gleamed on every gray stone, white slab, and green hillock, — 
rested a moment on me, then turned towards heaven, with such 
an expression ! 

"Not yet, my mother, oh, not yet!" I cried aloud in an 
agony that could not be repressed, clinging to Dr. Harlowe's 
arm as if every earthly stay and friend were sliding from my 
grasp. I knew the meaning of that mute, expressive glance. 
She was measuring her own grave by the side of Peggy's day 
cold bed, — she was commending her desolate orphan to the 
Father of the fatherless, the God of the widow. She knew 
she would soon be there, and I knew it too. And after the first 
sharp pang, — after the arrow of conviction fastened in my 
heart, — I pressed it there with a kind of stem, vindictive joy, 
triumphing in my capacity of suffering. I wonder if any one 
ever felt as I did, — I wonder if any worm of the dust ever 
writhed so impotently under the foot of Almighty God ! 

O kind and compassionate Father ! Now I know thou art 
kind even in thy chastisements, merciful even in thy judgments, 
by the bitter chalice I have drained, by all the waves and bil- 
lows that have gone over me, by anguish, humiliation, repent- 
ance, and prayer. Forgive, forgive! for I knew not what I 
was doing ! 

From that night my mother never lefl her bed. The fever 
spared her, but she wilted like the grass beneath the scythe of 
the mower. Gone was the unnatural excitement which had 
sustained her the last nine days; severed the silver cord so 
long dimmed by secret tears. 

Thank heaven! I was not doomed to see her tortured bj 
pain, or raving in delirious agony, — to see those exquisite feat- 
ures distorted by frenzy, — or to hear that low, sweet voice 
untuned, the key-note of reason lost 

Thank heaven ! even death laid its hand gently on one so 
gentle and so lovely. 




CHAPTER X. 

I SAiDy death laid its hand gently on one so gentle and so 
lovely. Week after week she lingered, almost imperceptibly 
finding, passing away like a soft rolling doad that melts into the 
sky. The pestilence had stayed its ravages. The terror, the 
thidL gloom had passed hy. 

If I looked abroad at sunset, I could see the windows of the 
Tillage mansions, crimsoned and glowing with the last flames of 
day ; but no light was reflected oa our darkened home. It was 
all in shadow. And at night, when the windows of Grandison 
Place were all illuminated, glittering off by itself like a great 
lantern, the traveller could scarcely have caught the glimmering 
ray of the little lamp dimly burning in our curtained room. 

Do you think I was resigned ? That because I was dumb, I 
lay like a lamb before the stroke of the shearer ? I will tell you 
how resigned, how submbsive I was. I have read of the 
tortures of the Inquisition. I have read of one who was 
chained on his back to the dungeon floor, without the power to 
move one musde, — hand and foot, body and limb bound. As 
he lay thus prone, looking up, ever upwards, he t»aw a 
circular knife, slowly descending, swinging like a pendulum, 
swinging nearer and nearer ; and he knew that every breath he 
drew it came nearer and nearer, and that he must feel anon the 
cold^ 8haq> edge. Yet he lay still, immovable, frozen, waiting, 
with his glazed eyes flxed on the terrible weapon. Such was 
my resignation — my submission. 

Friends gathered around the desolate ; but they could not 
avert the descending stroke. Mrs. Linwood came, with her an- 
gelic locking daughter, and their presence lighted up, momenta- 

5 • (M) 



54 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

rilj, our saddened dwelling, as if they had been messengers from 
heaven, — they were so kind, so sympathizing, so unobtrusive. 
When. Edith first crossed our threshold, she did indeed look 
like one of those ministering spirits, sent to watch over those 
who shall be heirs of salvation. She seemed to float forward, 
light and airy as the down wafled by the summer gale. Her 
crutches, the ends of which were wrapped with something soft 
and velvety, so as to muf&e their sound, rather added than 
detracted from the interest and grace of her appearance, so 
gracefully they sustained her fair, white-robed form, just lifling 
it above the earth. 

A little while before, I should have shrunk with nervous 
diffidence from the approach of guests like these. I should 
have contrasted painfully the splendor of their position with the 
lowliness of our own, — but now, what were wealth or rank or 
earthly distinctions to me ? 

I was sitting by my mother's bed, fanning her slumbers, as 
they entered. Mrs. Lin wood walked noiselessly forward, took 
the fan gently from my hand, and motioned me to resign my 
seat to her. I did so mechanically, for it seemed she had a 
right to be there. Then Edith took me by the hand and looked 
in my face with an expression of such sweet, unaffected sym- 
pathy, I turned aside to hide the quick-gushing tears. Not a 
word was uttered, yet I knew they came to soothe and comfort 

^Vlien my mother opened her eyes and saw the face of a 
stranger bending over her, she started and trembled ; but there 
was something in the mild, Christian countenance of Mrs. Lin- 
wood that disarmed her fears, and inspired confidence. The 
pride which had hitherto repelled the advances of friendship, 
was all chastened and subdued. Death, the great leveller, had 
entered the house, and the mountains of human distinction 
flowed down at his presence. 

^^ I am come to nurse you," said Mrs. Linwood, taking my 
mother's pale, emaciated hand and pressing it in both her own. 
^' Do not look upon me as a stranger, but as a friend — a sister. 
You will let me stay, will you not ? " 

She seemed soliciting a favor, not conferring one. 




EBNB8TLINWOOD. 55 

*^ Thank 700, — bless you !" answered my mother, her large 
ejes fixed with thrilling intensity on her face. Then she 
«dded, in a lower voice, glancing towards me, " she will not be 
left friendless, then. Yon will remember her when I am gone." 

*^ Kindly, tenderly, even with a mother's care," replied Mrs. 
linwood, tears suffasing her mild eyes, and testifying the sin- 
cerity of her words. 

My mother laid Mrs. Linwood's hand on her heart, whose 
languid beating scarcely stirred the linen that covered it ; then 
looking up to heaven, her lips moved in silent prayer. A 
smfle, faint but beautiful, passed over her features, and left its 
sweetness on her face. From that hour to the death-hour Mrs. 
linwood did minister to her, as a loving sister would have done. 
Edith often accompanied her mother and tried to comfort me, 
bat I was then inaccessible to comfort, as I was deaf to hope. 
When she stayed away, I missed the soft floating of her airy 
figure, the pitying glance of her heavenly blue eye ; but when 
she came, I said to myself, 

" Ber mother is not dying. How can she sympathize with 
me ? She is the favorite of Him who is crushing me beneath 
the iron hand of His wrath." 

Thus impious were my thoughts, but no one read them on 
my pale, drooping brow. Mrs. Linwood praised my fifial 
devotion, my fortitude and herobm. Dr. Harlowe had told her 
bow I had braved the terrors of midnight solitude through the 
lonely woods, to bring him to a servant's bedside. Richard 
Clyde had interested her in my behalf. She told me I had 
many friends for one so young and so retiring. Oh ! she little 
knew how coldly fell the words of praise on the dull ear of de- 
spair. I smiled at the thought of needing kindness and protec- 
tion when the was gone. As if it were possible for me to sur- 
vive my mother ! 

Uad she not herself told me that grief did not kill ? But I 
believed her not. 

Do you ask if I felt no curiosity then, about the mystery of 
my parentage ? I had been looking forward to the- time when 
I should be deemed old enough to know my mother's history, 



«56 EBNESTLINWOOD. 

of which my imagination had woven such a web of mystery 
and romance, — when I should hear something of that father, 
whose memory was curtained by such an impenetrable veiL 
But now it mattered not. Had I known that the blood of kings 
was in my veins, it would not have wakened one throb of am 
bition, kindled one ray of joy. I cared not for my lineage or 
kindred. I would not have disturbed the serenity that seemed 
settling on my mother's departing spirit, by one question rela- 
tive to her past life, for the wealth of the Indies. 

She gave to Mrs. Linwood a manuscript which she had writ 
ten while I was at school, and which was to have been com- 
mitted to Peggy's care ; — for surely Peggy, the strong, the 
robust, unwearied Peggy, would survive her, the frail, delicate, 
and stricken one ! 

She told me this the night before she died, when at her own 
request I was lefl alone with her. I knew it was for the last 
time, but I had been looking forward steadily to this hour, — 
looking as I said before, as the iron-bound prisoner to the re- 
volving knife, and like him I was outwardly calm. 1 knelt 
beside her and looked on her shadowy form, her white, transpar- 
ent skin, her dark, still lustrous, though sunken eyes, till it 
seemed that her spirit, almost disembodied, mingled mysteri- 
ously with mine, in earnest of a divine communion. 

^^ I thank God, my Gabriella," she said, laying her hand bless- 
ingly on my bowed head, " that you submit to His holy will, in 
a spirit of childlike submission. I thank Him for raising up 
such a friend as Mrs. Linwood, when friend and comforter 
seemed taken from us. Love her, confide in her, be grateful 
to her, my child. Be grateful to God for sending her to soothe 
my dying hours with promises of protection and love for you, 
my darling, my child, my poor orphan Gabriella." 

" Oh mother," I cried, " I do not submit, — I cannot, — I can- 
not ! Dreadful thoughts are in my heart — oh, my mother, Grod 
is very terrible. Leave me not alone to meet his awful judg- 
ments. Put your arms round me, my mother, and let me lie 
close to your bosom, I will not hurt you, I will lie so gently 
there. Death cannot separate us, when we cling so close to- 




BBNB8T LINWOOD. 57 

stlier. Leave me not alone in the world, so cold, so dark, so 
earjy — oh, leave me not alone ! " Thus I dung to her, in the 
«aidooment of despair, while words rushed unbidden from mj 

*^ Oh, mj Gabriella, my child, my poor smitten lamb I " she 
ied, and I felt her heart fluttering against mine like a dying 
zd. ** Sorrow has berefl you of reason, — you know not what 
XI saj. Gabriella, it is an awful thing to resist the Almighty 
rod. Submission is the heritage of dust and ashes, /have 
een proud and rebeUious, smarting under a sense of unmerited 
imstisement and wrong. Because man was false, I thought 
iod Vinjust, — but now, on this djring bed, the illusion of pas- 
oo is dispelled, and I see Him as He is, longsuffenng, com- 
MMonate, and indulgent, in all his loving-kindness and tender 
lercy, strong to deliver and mighty to save. I feel that I have 
eeded all the discipline of sorrow through which I have 
assed, to bring my proud and troubled soul, a sin-sick, life- 
reary wanderer, to my Father's footstool. What matters now, 
ly Gabriella, that I have trod a thorny path, if it lead to 
eaven at last ? How short the journey, — how long the rest ! 
)h, beloved child, bow to the band that smites thee, for the 
tubbom will must be broken. Wait not, like me, till it be 
round into dust*' 

She paused breathless and exhausted, but I answered not. 
x>w sobs came gaspingly from my bosom, on which a mountain 
f ice seemed freezing. 

** If we could die together," she continued, with increasing 
olenmity, ^ if I could bear you in these feeble arms to the 
lercy-seat of God, and know you were safe from temptation, 
nd sorrow, and sin, the bitterness of deatli would be passed, 
t is a fearful thing to live, my child, far more fearful than to 
ie, — but life is the trial of faith, and death the victory." 

^ And now,'* she added, ^ before my spirit wings its upward 
light, receive my dying injunction. If you live to years of 
romanhood, and your heart awakens to love, — as, alas, for 
roman's destiny it will, — then read my life and sad experi- 
sioCy aad be warned by my example. Mrs. Linwood is in- 



58 SSNESTLINWOOD. 

trusted with the manuscript, blotted with jour mother^B tears. 
Oh, Gabriella, by all your love and reverence for the memoiy 
of the dead, — by the scarlet dye that can be made white as 
wool, — by your own hope in a Saviour's mercy, forgive the 
living, — if living he indeed be I " 

Her eyes closed as she uttered these words, and a purplish 
gloom gathered beneath her eyes. The doctor came in and 
administered ether, which partially revived her. I have never 
been able to inhale it since, without feeling sick and faint, and 
recalling the deadly odor of that chamber of mourning. 

About daybreak, I heard Dr. Harlowe say in the lowest 
whisper to Mrs. Linwood that she could not live more than one 
hour. He turned the hour-glass as he spoke. She had col- 
lected all the energies of life in that parting interview, — noth- 
ing remained but a faint, fluttering, quick-drawn breath. 

I sat looking at the hour-glass, counting every gliding sand, 
till each little, almost invisible particle, instead of dropping into 
the crystal receptacle, seemed to fall on my naked heart like 
the mountain rock. O my Gk>d ! there are only two or three 
sands lefl, and my mother's life hangs on the last sinking grain. 
Some one rises with noiseless steps to turn the glass. 

With a shriek that might have arrested the departing spirit, 
I sprang forward and fell senseless on the floor. 

I remember nothing that passed during the day. I was told 
aflerwards, that when I recovered from the fainting fit, the 
doctor, apprehensive of spasms, gave me a powerful anodyne 
to quiet my tortured nerves. When I became conscious of 
what was passing around me, the moon was shining on the bed 
where I lay, and the shadow of the sofUy rustling leaves quiv- 
ering on the counterpane. I was alone, but I heard low, mur- 
muring voices in the next room, and there was a light there 
more dim and earthly than the pale splendor that enveloped 
me. I leaned forward on my elbow and looked beyond the 
open door. The plain white curtains of the bed were looped 
up on each side, and the festoons swayed heavily in the night 
air, which made the flame of the lamp dim and wavering. A 
form reclined on the bed, but the face was aU covered^ though it 




SRNK8T LINWOOD. 59 

M a midsommei^s night As I looked, I remembered aU, and 
and glided through the moonlight to the spot where mj 
slept Sustained bj unnatural excitement, I seemed 
me on air, and as much separated from the body as the spirit 

• lately divorced from that unbreathing clay ; it was the effect 

* the opiate I had taken, but the pale watchers in the death- 
nmber shuddered at my unearthly appearance. 

'^Let there be no light here but light from heaven," said 
extinguishing the fitful lamp-flame ; and the room was imme- 
ately illuminated with a white, ghostly lustre. Then kneeling 
f the bed, I folded back the linen sheet, gazed with folded 
inds, and dry, dilated eyes on the mystery of death. The 
ooo, *^ that sun of the sleepless," that star of the mourner, 
looe full on her brow, and I smiled to see how divinely fair, 
>w placid, how angelic she looked. Her dark, shining hair, 
le long dark lashes that pencilled her white cheek, alone 
revented her from seeming a statue of the purest marble, 
«hioned afler some Grecian model. Beauty and youth had 
Mne back to her reposing features, and peace and rapture too. 
. smile, such as no living lips ever wore, lingered round her 
outh and softened its mute expression. She was happy. 
t)d had given hb beloved rest She was happy. It was not 
^ath on which I was gazing; it was life, — the dawn of 
miortal, of eternal life. Angels were watching around her. 
did not see them, but I felt the shadow of their snow-white 
ings. I felt them fanning my brow and softly lifling the locks 
at fell darkly against the sheet, so chilly white. Others might 
ive thought it the wind sighing through the leafy lattice-work ; 
It the presence of angels was real to me, — and who can say 
«y were not hovering there ? 

That scene is past, but its remembrance is undying. The 
tie cottage is inhabited by strangers. The grass grows rank 
iar the brink of the fountain, and the mossy stone once mois- 
ned by my tears has rolled down and choked its gushing. My 
other sleei>s by the side of the faithful Peggy, beneath a 
lUow that weeps over a broken shaft,— -fitting monument for 
broken heart 



60 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

I will Dot dwell on the desolation of orphanage. It cannot 
be described. M7 Maker only knows the bitterness of mj 
grief for days, weeks, even months. But time gradu^y 
warms the cold clay oyer the grave of love ; then the grass 
springs up, and the jQowers bloom, and the waste places of life 
become beautiful with hope, and the wilderness blossoms like 
the rose. 

But oh, my mother I my gentle, longsufiering mother I thou 
hast never been forgotten. By day and by night, in sunshine 
and shadow, in joy and in sorrow, thou art with me, a holy 
spirit, a hallowed memory, a chastening influence^ that paaseth 
not away. 




CHAPTER XI. 

What a change, from the little gray cottage in the woods to 
the pillared walls of Grandison Place. 

This ancestral looking mansion was situated on the brow of 
a long, winding hill, which commanded a view of the loveliest 
▼alley in the world. A bold, sweeping outline of distant hills, 
here and there swelling into mountains, and crowned with 
a deeper, mistier blue, divided the rich green of the eai'th from 
the azure of the heavens. Far as the eye could reach, it 
biheld the wildest luxuriance of nature retincd and subdued by 
the hand of cultivation and taste. Man had reverenced the 
grandeur of the Creator, and made the ploughshare turn aside 
from the noble shade-tree, and left the streams rejoicing in their 
margins of verdure ; and far off, far away beneath the shadow 
of the mUty blue hills, — of a paler, more leaden hue, — the 
waters of the great sea seemed ready to roll down on the vale, 
that lay smiling before it. 

Built of native granite, with high massive walls and low 
turreted roof, Grandi^^on Place rose above the surrounding 
buildings in castellated majesty. It stood in the centre of a 
t^|>acious lawn, zoned by a girdle of oaks, beneath whose dense 
shade the dew sparkled even at noonday. Within this zone 
was a hedge of cedar, so »<mooth, with twigs so tliickly interwo- 
ven, that the gossamer thought it a framework, on which to 
stretch its trans|)arent web in the morning sun. Near the house 
the lawn was margined with beds of the rarest and most beauti- 
ful flowers, queen roses, and all the fragrant popuUice of the Doral 
world. But the grandest and most beautiful feature of all was 
a magnificent elm-tree, standing right in the centre of the green 

6 («i) 



62 ERKESTLINWOOD. 

inclosure, towering upward, sweeping downward, spreading on 
either side its lordly branches, *^ from storms a shelter and from 
heat a shade." 

I never saw so noble a tree. I loved it, -r- 1 reverenced it 
I associated with it the idea of strength and protection. Had I 
seen the woodman's axe touch its bark, I should have felt as if 
blood would stream from its venerable trunk. A circular 
bench with a back formed of boughs woven in checker-work 
surrounded it, and at twilight the soil sofas in the drawing-room 
were left vacaut for this rustic seat. 

Edith loved it, and when she sat there with her cratches 
leaning against the rough back, whose gray tint subdued the 
bright lustre of her golden hair, I would throw myself on the 
grass at her feet and gaze upon her, as the embodiment of 
human loveliness. 

One would suppose that I felt awkward and strange in the 
midst of such unaccustomed magnificence ; but it was not so. 
It seemed natural and right for me to be there. I trod the sofl, 
rich, velvety carpeting with a step as unembarrassed as when 1 
traversed tlie grassy lawn. I was as much at home among the 
splendors of art as the beauties of nature, — both seemed my 
birthright. 

I felt the deepest, most unbounded gratitude for my benefac- 
tress ; but there was nothing abject in it. I knew that giving 
did not impoverish her ; that the food I ate was not as much to 
her as the crumbs that fell from my mother's table ; that the 
room I occupied was but one in a suite of elegant apartments ; 
yet this did not diminish my sense of obligation. It lightened 
it, liowever, of its oppressive weight. 

JVIy room was next to Edith's. The only difference in the 
furniture was in the color of the hangings. The curtains and 
bed drapery of mine were pink, hers blue. Both opened into 
an upper piazza, whose lofty pillars were wreathed with flower- 
ing vines, and crowned with Corinthian capitals. Surely mj 
love for the beautiful ought to have been satisfied; and so it 
was, — but it was long, long before my heart opened to receive 
its influence. The clods that covered my mother's ashes laid .- 
too heavily upon it. iti *' 

3 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 63 

Mrs. LiDWOod bad a great deal of company from the city, 
which was bat a short journey from Grandison Place. As they 
were mostly transient guests, I saw but little of them. My 
extreme youth, and deep mourning dress, were sufficient rea- 
sons for withdrawing from the &mily circle when strangers en- 
larged it. Edith was three years older than myself, and was 
c^ ooorse expected to assist her mother in the honors of hospi- 
tality. She loved society, moreover, and entered into its inno- 
cent pleasures with the delight of a young, genial nature. It 
was difficult to think of her as a young lady, she was so ex- 
tremely juvenile in her appearance ; and her lameness, by giving 
her an air of childish dependence, added to the illusion caused by 
her fair, clustering ringlets and infantine rosiness of complexion. 
She wanted to bring me forward ; — she coaxed, caressed, and 
playfully threatened, nor desisted till her mother said, with 
grave tenderness — 

^ The heart cannot be forced, Edith ; Gabriella is but a child, 
and should be allowed the freedom of a child. The restraints 
of social life, once assumed, are not easily thrown aside. Let 
her do just as she pleases." 

And so I did ; and it pleased me to wander about the lawn ; 
to sit and read under the great elm-tree ; to make garlands of 
myrtle and sweet running vine flowers for Edith's beautiful 
hair ; to walk the piazza, when moonlight silvered the columns 
and covered with white glory the granite walls, while the foun- 
tain of poetry down in the depths of my soul welled and trem- 
bled in the heavenly lustre. 

It pleased me to sit in the library, or rather to stand and 
viove about there, for at that time I did not like to sit anywhere 
but on the grass or the oaken bench. The old poets were 
there in rich binding, all the classics, and the choicest speci- 
mens of modem literature. There were light, airy, movable 
steps, so as to reach to the topmost shelves, and there I loved to 
poise myself, like a bird on the spray, peeping into this book 
and that, gathering here and there a golden grain or sweet 
•oented flower for the gamer of thought, or the bower of imag- 



G4 ERNESTLINWOOD. 

There were statues in niches made to receive them, — the 
gods and goddesses of Greece and Rome, in their cold, severe 
beauty, all passionless and pure, in spite of the glowing my- 
thology that called them into existence. There were paintings, 
too, that became a part of my being, I took them in with such 
intense, gazing eyes. Indeed, the house was lined with them. 
I could not walk through a room without stopping to admire 
some work of genius, some masterpiece of art. 

I overheard Dr. Harlowe say to Mrs. Linwood, that it was a 
pity I were not at school, I was so very young. As if I were 
not at school all the time ! As if those grand old books were 
not teachers ; those breathing statues, those gorgeous paintings 
were not teachers ; as if the noble edifice itself, with its 
magnificent surroundings, the billowy heave of the distant 
mountains, the glimpses of the sublime sea, the fair expanse of 
the beautiful valley, were not teachers ! 

Oh ! they little knew what lessons I was learning. They 
little knew how the soul of the silent orphan girl was growing 
within her, — how her imagination, like flowers, was nourished in 
stillness and secrecy by the air and the sunshine, the dew and 
the shower. 

I had other teachers, too, in the lonely churchyard; very 
solemn they were, and gentle too, and I loved their voiceless 
instructions better than the sounding eloquence of words. 

Mr. Regulus thought with Dr. Harlowe, that it was a pity I 
was not at school. He called to see Mrs. Linwood and asked 
her to use her influence to induce me to return as a pupil to the 
academy. She lefl it to my decision, but I shrunk from the 
thought of contact with the rude village children. I felt as if 
I had learned all Mr. Regulus could teach me. I was under 
greater masters now. Yet I was grateful for the interest he 
manifested in me. I had no vindictive remembrance of the 
poem he had so ruthlessly murdered. Innumerable acts of 
after kindness had obliterated the impression, or rather covered 
it with a growth of pleasant memories. 

*^ Have you given up entirely the idea of being a teacher 
yourself?" he asked, in -a low voice, '*or has the kindness of 




BBNS8T LIKWOOD. 65 

rendered it superfluous ? I do not ask from curiosity, 
but a deep interest in jour future welfare." 

This was a startling question. I had not thought of the sub- 
ject since I had entered my new home. Why should I think 
of the drudgery of life, pillowed on the downy couch of luxury 
and ease ? I was forgetting that I was but the recipient of 
another^s bounty, — a guest, but not a child of the household. 

Low as was his voice, I knew Mrs. Linwood heard and un- 
derstood him, for her eyes rested on me with a peculiar expres- 
sion of anxiety and interest. She did not speak, and I knew 
not what' to utter. A burning glow rose to my cheeks, and my 
heart fluttered with painful apprehension. It was all a dream, 
then. That home of affluence was not mine, — it was only the 
asylum of my first days of orphanage. The maternal tender- 
ness of Mrs. Linwood was notliing more than compassion and 
Christian charity, and the sisterly affection of the lovely Edith 
but the overflowing of the milk of human kindness. These were 
my tirst, flashing thoughts ; then the inherent pride of my na- 
ture rose to sustain me. I would never be a willing burden to 
any one. I would toil day and night, sooner than eat the bread 
of dependence. It would have been far better to have left me in 
the humble cottage where they found me, to commence my life 
of drudgery at once, than to have given me a taste of luxury and 
affluence, to heighten, by force of contrast, privation and labor. 

^ I will commence teaching immediately," I answered, trying 
in vain to speak with firmness, ^^ if you think I am not too 
young, and a situation can be obtained ; " ^ that is," I added, I 
fear a little proudly, ^ if Mrs. Linwood approve." 

''It must not be tliought of tU present,* she answered, speak- 
ing to Mr. Regulus. ^ Grabriella is too young yet to assume 
the burden of authority. Her physical powers are still unde- 
veloped. Besides, we shall pass the winter in the metropolis. 
Next summer we will talk about it." 

*^ They speak of adding a primary department to the acade- 
my," said my former master, ^ which will be under female su- 
perintendence. If this is done, and she would accept the situa- 
tion, I think I have influence enough to secure it for her." 

6* 



66 ERNE8TLINWO0D. 

" We will see to that hereafter," said Mrs. Linwood ; " but 
of one thing I am assured, if Gabriella ever wishes to assume 
duties so honorable and so feminine, she would think it a privi- 
lege to be under your especial guardianship, and within reach 
of your experience and counsel." 

I tried to speak, and utter an assent to this wise and decided 
remark, but 1 could not I felt the tears gushing into my eyes, 
and hastily rising, I left the room. I did not go out on the 
lawn, for I saw Edith's white robes under the trees, and I knew 
the guests of the city were with her. I ran up stairs to my own 
apartment, or that which was called mine, and, sitting down in 
an embrasure of the window, drew aside the rosy damask and 
gazed around me. 

Do not judge me too harshly. I was ungrateful ; I knew I 
was. My heart rose against Mrs. Linwood for her cold de- 
cision. I forgot, for the moment, her holy ministrations to my 
dying mother, her care and protection of me, when left desolate 
and alone. I forgot that I had no claims on her beyond what 
her compassion granted. I realized all at once that I was poor 
and dependent, though basking in the sunshine of wealth. 

In justice to myself I must say, that the bitterest tears I then 
shed were caused by disappointment in Mrs. Linwood's exalted 
character. I had imagined her '' bounty as boundless as the 
sea, her love as deep." Now the noble proportion of her vir- 
tues seemed dwarfed, their luxuriance stinted, and withering 
too. 

AVhilc I was thus cheating my benefactress of her fair per- 
fections, she came in with her usual quiet and stilly step, and 
sat down beside me. The consciousness of what was passing 
in my mind, made the guilty blood rush warm to my face. 

" You have been weeping, Gabriella," she said, in gentle ac- 
cents ; ^ your feelings are wounded, you think me cold, peiiiaps 
unkind." 

" Oh, madam, what have I said ? " 

" Nothing, my dear child, and yet I have read every thing. 
Your ingenuous countenance expressed on my entrance as 
plain as words could utter, ' Hate me, for I am an ingrate.* ** 

\ 




BRNE8T LIKWOOD. 67 

** You do, indeed, read very dosely." 

*^ Could jOQ look as doselj into my heart, Grabriella, were my 
hce as transparent as yours, you would understand at once my 
apparent coldness as anxiety for your highest good. Did I 
consult my own pleasure, without regard to that discipline by 
which the elements of character are wrought into beauty and 
fitness, I should cherish no wish but to see you ever near me as 
now, indulging the sweet dreams of youth, only the more fas- 
cinating for being shadowed with melancholy. I would save 
yoo, if possible, from becoming the victim of a diseased imag- 
ination, or too morbid a sensibility." 

I looked up, impressed with her calm, earnest tones, and as I 
listened, conscience upbraided me with injustice and ingrati- 
tode. 

"^ There is a period in every young girl's life, my dear Gabri- 
ella, when she is in danger of becoming a vain and idle 
dreamer, when the amusements of childhood have ceased to 
interest, and the shadow of woman's destiny involves the pleas- 
ures of youth. The mind is occupied with vague imaginings, 
the heart with restless cravings for unknown blessings. With 
your vivid imagination and deep sensibility, your love of reverie 
and abstraction, there is great danger of your yielding uncon- 
sciou^^ly to habits the more fatal in their influence, because ap- 
parently as innocent as they are insidious and pernicious. A 
life of active industry and usefulness is the only safeguard from 
temptation and sin." 

Oh, how every true word she uttered ennobled her in my 
estimation, while it humbled myself. Idler that I was in my 
Father's vineyard, I was holding out my hands for the cluster- 
ing grapes, whose purple juice is for him who treadeth the 
wine-press. 

"Were my own Edith physically strong," she added, "I 
would ask no nobler vocation for her than the one suggested to 
you this day. I should rejoice to see her passing through a 
discipline so chastening and exalting. I should rejoice to see 
her exercising the faculties which God has given her for the 
benefit of her kind. The possession of wealth does not exempt 



68 SRNESTLIlfWOOQ. 

one from the active duties of life, from self-sacrifice, industry, 
and patient continuance in well-doing. The little I have done 
for you, all that I can do, is but a drop from the fountain, and 
-were it ten times more would never be missed. It is not that I 
would give less, but I would require more. While I live, this 
shall ever be your home, where you shall feel a mother's care, 
protection, and tenderness ; but I want you to form habits of 
self-reliance, independence, and usefulness, which will remain 
your friends, though other friends should be taken from you." 

Dear, excellent Mrs. Linwood! how my proud, rebellious 
heart melted before her! What resolutions I formed to be 
always governed by her influence, and guided by her counsels ! 
How vividly her image rises before me, as she then looked, in 
her customary dress of pale, silver gray, her plain yet graceful 
lace cap, simply parted hair, and calm, benevolent countenance. 

She was the most unpretending of human beings. She moved 
about the house with a step as stilly as the falling dews. In- 
deed, such was her walk through life. She seemed bom to 
teach mankind unostentatious charity. Yet, und^r this mild, 
calm exterior, she had a strong, controlling will, which aU 
around her felt and acknowledged. From the moment she 
drew the fan from my hand, at my mother's bedside, to the 
hour I left her dwelling, she acted upon me with a force power- 
ful as the sun, and as benignant too. 




CHAPTER XII. 

t 

Ip I do not pass more rapidlj over these earlj scenes, I shall 
never finish m j book. 

Book ! — am I writing a book ? No, indeed I This is only 
a record of mj heart's life, written at random and carelessly 
thrown aside, sheet after sheet, dbjlline leaves from the great 
book of fate. The wind maj blow them awaj, a spark con- 
sume them. I may myself commit them to the flames. I am 
tempted to do so at this moment. 

I once thought it a glorious thing to be an author, — to touch 
the electric wire of sentiment, and know that thousands would 
thrill at the shock, — to speak, and believe that unborn millions 
would hear the music of those echoing words, — to possess the 
wand of the enchanter, the ring of the genii, the magic key to 
the temple of temples, the pass- word to the universe of mind. 
I once had such visions as these, but they are passed. 

To touch the electric wire, and feel the bolt scathing one's 
own brain, — to speak, to hear the dreary echo of one's voice 
return through the desert waste, — to enter the temple and find 
nothing but ruins and desolation, — to lay a sacrifice on the 
altar, and see no fire from heaven descend in token of accept- 
ance, — to stand the priestess of a lonely shrine, uttering ora- 
cles to the unheeding wind, — is not such too often the doom of 
those who have looked to fame as their heritage, believing 
genius their dower? 

Heaven save me from such a destiny. Better the daily task, 
the measured duty, the chaincd-down spirit, the girdled heart 

A year after Mrs. Linwood pointed out to me the path of 
dntj, I began to walk in it. I have passed the winter in the 

(69) 



70 ERNESTLINWOOD. 

city, but it was one of deep seclusion to me. I welcomed with 
rapture our return to the country, and had so far awakened 
from dream-life, as to prepare myself with steadiness of pur- 
pose for the realities of ray destiny. 

Edith rebelled against her mother's decision. There was 
no need of such a thing. I was too young, too delicate, too 
sensitive for so rough a task. There was a plenty of robusl 
country girls to assist Mr. Regulus, if he wanted them to, with- 
out depriving her of her companion and sister. She appealed 
to Dr. Harlowe, in her sweet, bewitching way, which always 
seemed irresistible ; but he only gave her a genial smile, called 
me " a brave little girl," and bade me " Grod speed." ' ** I wish 
Richard Clyde were here," said she, in her own artless, half- 
childish manner, ^^ I am sure he would be on my side. I wish 
brother Ernest would come home, he would decide the question. 
Oh, Gabriella, if you only knew brother Ernest I " 

If I have not mentioned this brother Ernest before, it is not 
because I had not heard his name repeated a thousand times. 
He was the only son and brother of the family, who, having 
graduated with the first honors at the college of his native 
State, was completing his education in Germany, at the cele- 
brated University of Grottingen. There was a picture of him 
in the library, taken just before he lefl the country, on which 
I had gazed, till it was to me a living being. It was a dark, 
fascinating face, — a face half of sunshine and half shadow, a 
face of mysterious meanings ; as different from Edith's ak 
night from morning. It reminded me of the head of Byron, 
but it expressed deeper sensibility, and the features were even 
more symmetrically handsome. 

Edith, who was as frank and artless as a child, was always 
talking of her brother, of his brilliant talents, his genius, and 
peculiarities. She showed me his letters, which were written 
with extraordinary beauty and power, though the sentiments 
were somewhat obscured by a transcendental mistiness belong- 
ing to the atmosphere he breathed. 

** Ernest never was like anybody else," said Edith ; ^ he is 
the most singular, but the most fascinating of human beings. Oh, 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 71 

Gabriella, I long to have him come back, that you may know 
and admire him." 

Though I knew bj ten thousand signs that this absent son was 
the first object of Mrs. Linwood's thoughts, she seldom talked 
of him to me. She often, when Edith was indulging in her 
entHusiastic descriptions of him, endeavored to change the 
oooversation and turn mj thoughts in other channels. 

But why do I speak of Ernest Linwood here ? It is prema- 
ture. I was about to describe a little part of my experience 
as a village teacher. 

Edith had a beautiful little pony, gentle as a lamb, yet very 
spirited withal, (for lame though she was, she was a graceful and 
fearless equestrian,) which it was arranged that I should ride 
every morning, escorted by a servant, who carried the pony back 
for Edith's use. Dr. Harlowe, who resided near the academy, said 
I was always to dine at his house, and walk home in the even- 
ing. They must not make too much of a fine lady of me. I 
must exercise, if I would gather the roses of health. Surely 
DO young girl could begin the ordeal of duty under kinder, 
more favoring auspices. 

After the first dreaded morning when Mr. Regulus, tall, 
stately, and imposing, ushered me into the apartment where I 
was to preside with delegated authority, led me up a low 
flight of steps and waved his hand towards a high magisterial 
arm-chair which was to be my future throne, I felt a degree 
of self-confidence that surprised and encouraged me. Every 
thing was so novel, so fre^sh, it imparted an elasticity to my 
spirit.s I had not felt in Mn^. Linwood's luxurious home. Then 
there wa^i something self-sustaining, inspiring in the conscious- 
ness of intellectual exertion and moral courage, in the thought 
that I was doing some little good in the world, that I was secur- 
ing the approbation of 3Irs. Linwood and of the excellent Dr. 
Harlowe. The children, who had most of them been my fellow 
pupils, looked upon Gabriella Lynn, the proUSg^e of the rich 
Mn«. Linwood, as a different being from Gabriella Lynn of the 
little gray cottage in the woods. I have no doubt they thought 
it very grand to ride on that beautiful pony, with its saddle-cloth 



72 EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

of blue and silver, and glittering martingale, escorted bj a ser* 
vant too ! Had they been disposed to rebel at mj authintyy 
they would not have dared to do so, for Mr. Begulus, jeakHU 
for my new dignity, watched over it with an eagle eye. 

Where were the chains, whose prophetic clanking had chilled 
my misgiving heart ? They were transformed to flowery fear- 
lands, of daily renewing fragrance and bloom. My desk was 
literally covered with blossoms while their season lasted, and 
little fairy fingers were always twining with wreaths the dark hair 
they loved to arrange according to their own juvenile fancies. 

My noon hours at Dr. Uarlowe*s, were pleasant episodes in 
my daily life. Mrs. Harlowe was an excellent woman. She 
was called by the villagers ^ a most superior woman,^ — and 
so she was, if admirable housekeeping and devotion to her 
husband's interests entitled her to the praise. She was always 
busy ; but the doctor, though he had a wide sweep of practice 
in the surrounding country, always seemed at leisure. There 
was something so cheerful, so encouraging about him, despond- 
ency fled from his presence and gave place to hope. 

I love to recall this era of my life. If I have known deeper 
happiness, more exalted raptures, they were dearly purchased 
by the sacrifice of the peace, the salubrity of mind I then 
enjoyed. I had a little room of my own there, where I was as 
much at home as I was at Mrs. Linwood*8. There was a 
place for my bonnet and parasol, a shelf for my books, a low 
rocking-chair placed at the pleasantcst window for me; and, 
knowing Mrs. Ilarlowe's methodical habits, I was always care- 
ful to leave every thing, as I found it, in Quakeivlike order. 
This was the smallest return I could make for her hospitality, 
and she appreciated it far beyond its merits. T|y^ good doctor, 
with all his virtues, tried the patience of his wife sometimes 
beyond its limits, by his excesshoe carelessness. He unnUd 
forget to hang his hat in the hall, and toss it on the bright, pol- 
ished mahogany table. He tDould Ibrget to use the scraper by 
the steps, or the mat by the door, and leave tracks on the 
clean floor or nice carpet These little tilings really worried 
her ; I could see they did. She never said any thing ; but she 




EftNESTLINWOOD. 73 

would get op, take up the hat, brush the table with her hand- 
kerchief, and hang the hat in its right place, or send the house- 
girl with the broom afler his disfiguring tracks. 

^ Pardon me, my dear," he would say with imperturbable 
good-nature, — ^really, I am too forgetful. I must have a 
self-regulating machine attached to my movements, — a porta- 
ble duster and hat-catcher. But, the blessed freedom of home. 
It constitutes half its joy. Dear me ! I would not exchange 
the privilege of doing as I please for the emperorship of the 
celestial realms." 

But, pleasant as were my noon rests, my homeward walks 
were pleasanter still. The dream-girl, afler being awake for 
long hours to the practical duties of life, loved to ramble alone, 
till she felt herself involved in the sofl haziness of thought, 
which was to the soul what the blue mistiness was to the distant 
hills. I could wander then alone to the churchyard, and yield 
myself unmolested to the sacred influences of memory. Do you 
remember my asking Richard Clyde to plant a white rose by 
my mother's grave ? He had done so, soon after her burial, 
and now, when rather more than a year had passed, it was put- 
tin;! forth fair buds and blossoms, and breathing of renovation 
over the ruins of life. I never saw this rose-tree without 
bl(\s>ing the hand wliich planted it ; and I loved to sit on the 
waving grass and listen to the soft summer wind stealing 
through it, rustling among the dry blades and whispering with 
the green ones. 

There was one sentence that fell from my mother's dying 
lips which ever came to me in the sighs of the gale, fraught with 
mournful mystery. " Because man was fahcy I dared to think 
God wa«* unjust." And had she not adjured me by every 
precious and every solemn consideration, " to forgive the livingy 
if living he indeed was ? " 

I knew these words referred to my father ; and what a his- 
tory of wrong and sorrow was left for my imagination to fill 
up ! Living ! — my father living ! Oh ! there is no grave so 
deep as that dug by the hand of neglect or desertion I He had 
been dead to my mother, — he had been dead to mo. I shud- 

7 



74 EBNESTLINWOOD. 

dered at the thought of breathing the same vital element He 
who had broken a mother's heart must be a fiend, worthy of 
eternal abhorrence. 

"If you live to years of womanhood," said my expiring 
mother, " and your heart awakens to love, as alas for woman's 
destiny it will, then read my life's sad experience, and be 
warned by my example." 

Sad prophetess 1 Death has consecrated thy prediction, but 
it is yet unfulfilled. When will womanhood commence, on 
whose horizon the morning star of love is to rise in clouded 
lustre ? 

Surely I am invested with a woman's dignity, in that great 
arm-chair, behind the green-covered desk. I feel very much 
like a blown rose, surrounded by the rose-bud garland of child- 
hood. Yet Dr. Harlowe calls me " little girl," and Mr. Regu- 
lus " my child," when the pupils are not by ; then it is " Miss 
Gabriella." They forget that I am sixteen, and that I have 
grown taller and more womanly in the last year ; but the awak- 
ening heart has not yet throbbed at its dawning destiny, the 
daystar of love has not risen on its slumbers. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

^ I WISH jcm had a yacation too^'' said Bichard Oyde, as we 
ascended together the winding hilL 

^Then we shoald not have these pleasant walks,** I an- 
swered. 

« Why not?" 

^ Whjy I shoald not be returning fitm school at this hour 
eyerj day, and 70a would not happen to overtake me as you do 
now.** 

*^ How do jou know it is acddent, Grabriella ? How do 70a 
know but I wander about the woods, a restless ghost, till glad 
ringing Toioes chiming together, announoe that you are free, 
and that I am at libert7 to play guardian and knight, as I did 
three or four years ago ? " 

** Because you would not waste your time so foolishly, and 
because I do not need a guardian now. I am in authority, you 
know, and no one molests or makes me afraid.** 

** Nevertheless, you need a guardian more than ever, and I 
shall remain true to my boyish allegiance.** 

Richard always had a gay, dashing way of talking, and his 
residence in college had certainly not subdued the gay spirit of 
chivalry that sparkled in his eye. He had grown much taller 
since I had seen him last, his face was more intellectual and 
altogether improved, and his dress was elegantly, though not 
foppishly, fashionable. He was an exceedingly agreeable com- 
panion. Even when I was most shy and sensitive, I felt at 
ease with him. When I say that I looked upon him something 
as an elder brother, I mean what I express, — not the sickly 
affectation wUh wUeh young girls sometimes strive to hide a 
deeper feelia&«-I remembered his steady school-boy fnend- 
ahipy his sjaprtij In the dariiL days of anguish and de^iair, and 

(TS) 



76 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

more than all, the rose, the sacred rose he had planted at mj 
mother's grave. 

I thanked him for this, with a choking voice and a mobtened 
eye. 

" Do not thank me," said he ; "I had a mother once, — she, 
too, is gone. The world may contain for us many friends, but 
never but one mother, Gnbriella. I was only ten years old 
when mine was taken from me, but her influence is around me 
still, a safeguard and a blessing." 

Words so full of feeling and reverence were more impressive 
falling from lips usually sparkling with gaiety and wit. We 
walked in silence up the gradual ascent, till we came to a fine 
old elm, branching out by the way-side, and we paused to rest 
imder its boughs. As we did so, we turned towards the valley 
we were leaving behind, and beheld it stretching, a magnificent 
panorama, to the east and the west, the north and the south, 
wearing every shade of green, from the deep, rich hue of the 
stately corn to the brighter emerald of the oat fields, and the 
dazzling verdure of the pasture-land ; and over all this glowing 
landscape the golden glory of approaching sunset hung like a 
royal canopy, whose purple fringes rested on the distant moun- 
tains. 

'^ How beautiful ! " I exclaimed with enthusiasm. 

" How beautiful 1 " he echoed with equal fervor. 

" You are but mocking my words, Richard, — you are not 
looking at the enchanting prospect." 

" Yes, I am, — a very enchanting one." 

'^ How foolish ! " I cried, for I could not but understand the 
emphasis of his smiling glance. 

'^ Why am I more foolish in admiring one beautiful prospect 
than you another, Gabriella? You solicited my admiration for 
one charming view, while my eyes were riveted on another. If 
we are both sincere, we are equally wise." 

^' But it seems so unnecessary to take the pains to compli- 
ment me, when you know me so well, and when I know myself 
60 well too." 

'^ I doubt your self-knowledge very much. I do not belieyei 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 77 

in the first place, that yoa are aware how wonderfully jou are 
improved. You do not look the same girl you did a year ago. 
You have grown taller, fairer, brighter, Gabriella. I did not 
expect to see this, when I heard you had shut yourself up in 
the academy again, under the shadow of old Regulus's beetling 
brows.** 

*^ I am sure he is not old, Richard ; he is in the very prime 
of manliood." 

** Well, Professor Regulus, then. We boys have a habit of 
speaking of our teachers in this way. I know it is a bad one, 
but we all fall into it. All our college professors have a meta- 
phorical name. With the venerable epithet attached to it, which 
yoQ condenm. 

^ I do not like it at all ; it sounds so disrespectful, and, par- 
don me for saying it, even coarse." 

** You have a great respect for Mr. Regulus." 

*• I have ; he is one of my best friends." 

^ 1 dare say he is ; I should like to be in his place. You 
have another great friend, old Dr. Harlowe." 

'•There, again. Why, Dr. Harlowe is almost young, at 
lea:*t very far from being old. He is one of the finest looking 
men I ever saw, and one of the best. You college students 
must be a very presuming set of young men." 

1 i^poke gravely, for I was really vexed that any one whom I 
esteemed as much as I did Richard, should adopt the vulgarisms 
he once despised. 

" We cure a barbarous, rude set," he answered with redeem- 
ing frankness. ^ We show exactly what a savage man is and 
would ever be, without the refining infiuence of women. If it 
were not for our vacations, we would soon get beyond the reach 
of civilization. Be not angry with my roughness, most gentle 
Gabriella. Pass over it your smoothing touch, and it shall 
have the polish of marble, without its coldness.** 

We had resumed our walk, and the granite walls of Grandi- 
son Place began to loom up above the surrounding shade. 

" That is a noble mansion," said he. " How admirably such a 
residence must harmonize with your high, romantic thoughts I 

7» 



78 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

But there is one thing that impresses me with wonder, — that 
Mrs. Linwood, so rich, so liberal too, with only one daughter, 
should allow you, her adopted child, to devote your young hoars 
to the drudgery of teaching. It seems so unnecessary, so in- 
consistent with her usual munificence of action." 

The glow of wounded pride warmed my cheek. I had be- 
come happy in my vocation, but I could not bear to hear it 
depreciated, nor the motives of my benefactress misynderstood 
and misrepresented. 

" Mrs. Linwood is as wise as she is kind," I answered, hastily. 
^ It is my happiness and good she consults, not her own pleasure. 
Giving does not impoverish either her ample purse or her 
generous heart She knows my nature, knows that I could 
not bear the stagnation of a life of luxurious ease." 

" Edith can, — why not you ? " 

"We are so different. She was bom for the position she 
occupies. She is one of the lilies of the valley, that toil not, 
neither do they spin, yet they fulfil a lovely mission. Do not 
try to make me discontented with a lot, so full of blessings, 
Richard. Surely no orphan girl was ever more tenderly cher- 
ished, more abundantly cared for." 

" Discontented ! " he exclaimed, " heaven forbid ! I must be 
a wretched blunderer. I am saying something wrong all the 
time, with a heart full of most excellent intentions. Discon- 
tented ! no, indeed ; I have only the unfortunate habit of speak- 
ing before I think. I shall grow wiser as I grow older, I 
trust." 

He reached up to a branch that bent over the way-side, and 
breaking it off, began to strip it of its green leaves and scatter 
them in the path. 

" You do not think me angry, Richard ? " I asked, catching 
some of the leaves, before they fell to the ground. " I once felt 
all that you express ; and I was doubly wrong ; I was guilty of 
ingratitude, you only of thoughtlessness." 

" When does Mrs. Linwood expect her son ? " he asked 
abruptly. 

" Next summer, I believe ; I do not exactly know." 



KBNESTLINWOOD. 79 

''He will take strong hold of joar poetic imagination. 
There is something ' grand, gloomy, and peculiar ' about him ; 
a mystery of reserve, which oh amounts to haughtiness. I am 
but very little acquainted with him, and probably never shall be. 
Should we chance to meet in society, we would be two parallel 
lines, never uniting, however near we might approach. Be- 
sides, he is a number of years older than myself." 

** I suppose you call him old Mr. Linwood," said I, laughing. 

We had now entered the gate, and met Mrs. Linwood and 
Edith walking in the avenue, if Edith could be said to walk, 
borne on as sh^ was by her sofUy falling crutches. She looked 
so exceedingly lovely, I wondered that Richard did not burst 
forth in expressions of irrepressible admiration. I was never 
weary of gazing on her beauty. Even afler an absence of a 
few hours, it dawned upon me with new lustre, like that of the 
rising day. I wondered that any one ever looked at any one 
else in her presence. As for myself, I felt annihilated by her 
dazzling fairness, as the little star b absorbed by the resplen- 
dent moon. » 

Strange, all beautiful as she was she did not attract, as one 
would suppose, the admiration of the other sex. Perhaps there 
was something cold and shadowy in the ethereality of her love- 
liness, a want of sympathy with man's more earthly, passionate 
nature. It is very certain, the beauty which woman most ad- 
mires often falls coldly on the gaze of man. Edith had the face 
of an angel ; but hers was not the darkening eye and chang- 
ing cheek that ^pale passion loves.'' Did the sons of God 
come down to earth, as they did in olden time, to woo the 
daughters of men, they might have sought her as their bride. 
She was not cold, however ; she was not passionless. She had 
a woman's heart, formed to enshrine an idol of clay, believing it 
imperishable as its own love. 

Mrs. Linwood gave Richard a cordial greeting. I had an 
unaccountable fear that she would not be pleased that he es- 
corted me home so frequently, though this was the first time he 
had accompanied me to the lawn. She urged him to remain 
and poM the evening, or rather asked him, for he required no 



80 EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

urging. I am sure it must have been a happj one to him. 
Edith played upon her harp, which had been newij strung* 
She seemed the very personification of one of Ossian's blue-eyed 
maids, with her white, rising hands, and long, floating locks. 

I was passionately fond of music, and had my talent been ear- 
ly cultivated I would doubtless have excelled. I cared not much 
about the piano, but there was inspiration in the very sight of 
a harp. In imagination I was Corinna, improvising the impas- 
sioned strains of Italy, or a Sappho, breathing out my soul, like 
the dying swan, in strains of thrilling melody. £dith was a St. 
Cecilia. Had my hand swept the chords, the hearts of mortals 
would have vibrated at the touch ; she touched the divine string, 
and " called angels down.*' 

When I retired that night and saw the reflection of myself 
full length, in the large pier-glass, between the rosy folds of the 
sweeping damask, I could not help recalling what Richard Clyde 
had said of my personal improvement. Was he sincere, when 
with apparent enthusiasm he had applied to me the epithet, 
beautiful ? No, he could not be ; and yet his eyes had emphar 
sized the language of his lips. 

I was not vain. Few young girls ever thought less of their 
personal appearance. I lived so much in the world within, that 
I gave but little heed to the fashion of my outward form. It 
seemed so poor an expression of the glowing heart, the heaven- 
born soul. 

For the first time I looked upon myself with reference to 
the eyes of others, and I tried to imagine the youthful figure 
on which I gazed as belonging to another, and not myself. 
Were the outlines soflened by the dark-flowing sable, classic 
and graceful? Was there beauty in the oval cheek, now 
wearing the warm bloom of the brunette, or the dark, long- 
lashed eye, which drooped with the burden of unuttered 
thoughts ? 

As I asked myself these questions, I smiled at my folly; 
and as the image smiled back upon the original, there was such 
a light, such a glow, such a hving soul passed before me, 
that for one moment a triumphant consciousness swelled mj 



XBHSST LINWOOD. 81 

booom, a new revelation beamed on my nnderstanding, — the 
consdoasnesB of woman's hitherto unknown power, — the revel- 
ation of woman's destiny. 

And connected with this, there came the remembrance of 
that haunting face in the library, which I had only seen on 
canvas, bnt which was to me a breathing reali^, — that fiftoe 
which, even on the cold, silrat wall, had no repose ; but dark, 
restless, and impassioned, was either a history of past disappoint- 
ment, or a prophecy <^ future suffering. 

The moment of triumph was brief. A pale shadow seemed 
to flit behind me and dim the bright image reflected in the 
mirror. It wore the sad, yet lovely lineaments of my departed 
mother. 

O how vain were youth and beauty, if thus they fiided and 
vanished away! How mournful was love thus wedded to sor- 
row ! how mysterious the nature in which they were united I 

A shower of tears washed away the vain emotions I blushed 
to have felt. But I could not be as though I had never known 
them. I could not recall the guileless simplicity of childhood, 
its sweet unconsciousness and contentment, in the present joy. 

O foolish, foolish Grabriella ! Art thou no longer a child ? 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Mr. Hegulus still called me " child." We had quite a scene 
in the aciidemy one day after the school was dismissed, and I 
was preparing as usual to return home. 

" Will you give me a few moments' conversation, Miss 
Gabriella ? " said he, clearing his throat with one of those hems 
which once sounded so awful. »He looked awkward and dis- 
concerted, while my face flushed with trepidation. Had I been 
guilty of any omitted duty or committed offence? Had I 
suffered an error on the blackboard to pass unnoticed, or 
allowed a mistake in grammar to be uncorrected ? What had 
I done ? 

I stood nervously pulling the fingers of my gloves, waiting 
for him to commence the conversation he had sought. Another 
hem ! — then he moved the inkstand about a foot further from 
him, for he was standing close to his desk, as if to gather round 
him every imposing circumstance, then he took up the ruler and 
measured it with his eye, run his finger along the edge, as if it 
were of razor sharpness. 

*^ Is he going to punish me ? " thought L ^ It looks omi- 
nous." 

I would not assist him by one word ; but maintaining a pro- 
voking silence, took up a pair of compasses and made a circle 
on the gi^een cloth that covered the desk. 

" Miss Gabriella," at length he said, " you must forgive me 
for taking the liberty of an old friend. Nothing but the most 
disinterested regard for your — your reputation — could induce 
me to mention a subject — so — so very — very peculiar." 

(82) 



SSNK8T LINWOOD. 83 

^ Good heavens ! " I exclaimed, ^' my reputatioiiy Mr. Bego- 
lus ? " 

I felt the blood bubbling like boiling water, up into mj 
cheek. 

^ I do not wish to alarm or distress jou/' he continued, be- 
coming more self-possessed, as mj agitation increased. ^ You 
know a young girl, led without her natural guardians, especial- 
ly if she is so unfortunate as to be endowed with those charms 
which too often attract the shafb of envy and stir up the 
venom of malice," — 

^ Mr. Regulus I " I interrupted, burning with impatience and 
indignation, ^ tell me what you mean. Has any one dared to 
slander me, — and for what ? "* 

^ No one would dare to breathe aught of evil against you in 
my presence," said he, with great dignity ; " but the covert 
whisper may pass from lip to lip, and the meaning glance flash 
from eye to eye, when your friend and protector is not 
near to shield you from aspersion, and vindicate your fame." 

** Stop," I exclaimed ; " you terrify — you destroy me ! " 

The room spun round like a top. Every thing looked misty 
and black. I caught hold of Mr. Reguius's arm to keep me 
from falling. Foes in ambush, glittering tomahawks, deadly 
scalping-knives, were less terrible than my dark imaginings. 

^ Bless me," cried my master, seating me in his great arm- 
chair and fanning me with an atlas which he caught from his 
de>k, ^ I did not mean to frighten you, my child. I wanted to 
advise, to counsel you, to prevent misconstruction and unkind 
remark, ^ly motives are pure, indeed they are ; you believe 
they arc, do you not ? " 

^ Certainly 1 do," 1 answered, passing my hand over my 
eyes, to clear away the dark specks that still floated over them ; 
^ but if you have any regard for my feelings, speak at once, 
plainly and openly. I will be grateful for any advice prompted 
by kindness, and expressed without mystery." 

**I only thought," said he, becoming again visibly embar- 
rassed, ** that I would suggest the propriety of your not per- 
mitting joung Clyde to accompany you home so oflen. The 



84 EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

exiraoi*dinar7 interest he took in you as a boy, renders his 
present attentions more liable to remark. A young girl in 
your situation, my child, cam^oUbe too Darticular, too much on 
her guard. College boys are'mla rellows. They are not safe 
companions for innocence andWmplicity like yours." 

^' And is this all ? " I asked, drawing a long breath, and feel- 
ing as if Mont Blanc had rolled from my breast 

" It is." 

" And you have heard no invidious remarks ? " 

" Not yet, Gabriella, but — " 

" My dear master," said I, rising with a joyous spring from 
my chair. " I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your 
anxious care of my good name. But I am sure Mrs. Linwood 
would not have sanctioned an impropriety. I have always felt 
towards Richard as I imagine I would towards a brother, were 
I so blest as to have one. He has made my lonely walks very 
pleasant by his lively and intelligent conversation. Still, I do 
not care to have him accompany me so often. I would rather 
that he would not. I will tell him so. I dare say you are 
right, Mr. Regulus ; I know you are. I know so little of the 
world, I may ofiend its rules without being aware of it." 

I felt so unspeakably relieved, so happy that the mountain 
of slander which my imagination had piled up was reduced to 
an anticipated molehill, that my spirits rebounded even to 
gaiety. I laughed at the sight of my torn glove, for I had actu- 
ally pulled off the fingers by my nervous twitches. 

" I thought you were going to apply the spatula. I feared 
you thought me guilty of writing another poem, Mr. Regulus ; 
what else could make you look so formidable ? " 

"Ah! Gabriella, let bygones be bygones. I was very 
harsh, very disagreeable then. I wonder you have ever for- 
given me ; I have never forgiven myself. I know not how it 
is, but it seems to me that a softening change has come over me. 
I feel more tenderly towards the young beings committed to my 
care, more indulgence for the weaknesses and errors of my kind. 
I did not mind, then, trampling on a fiower, if it sprung up in 
my path ; now I would stoop down and inhale its fragrance^ 



i: R N i: s T L I X w o o D . 85 

and bless my Maker for shedding beauty and sweetness to 
gladden my way. The perception of the beautiful grows and 
strengthens in me. The love of nature, a new-bom flower, 
blooms in my heart, and diffuses a sweet balminess unknown 
before. Even poetry, my child — do not laugh at me — has 
begun to unfold its mystic beauties to my imagination. I was 
reading the other evening that charming paraphrase of the 
nineteenth Psalm : ' The spacious firmament on high,' and I 
was exceedingly struck with its melodious rhythm ; and when 
I looked up afterwards to the starry heavens, to the moon walk- 
ing in her brightness, to the blue and boundless ether, they 
seemed to bend over me in love, to come nearer than they had 
ever done before. I could hear the whisper of that divine 
voice, which is heard in the rustling of the forest trees, the 
gurgling of the winding stream, and the rush of the mountain 
cataract ; and every day," he added, with solemnity, ^ I love 
man more, because God has made him my brother." 

He paused, and his countenance glowed with the fervor of his 
feelings. With an involuntary expression of reverence and ten- 
derness I held out my hand and exclaimed, — 

^ My dear master — " 

" You forgive me, then," taking my hand in both his, and 
bur}'ing it in his large palms ; *' you do not think me officious 
and overbearing ? " 

** O no, sir, I have nothing to forgive, but much to be grate^ 
ful for ; thank you, I must go, for I have a long walk to take 
— alone" 

With an emphasis on the last word I bade him adieu, ran 
down the steps, and went on musing so deeply on my singular 
interview with Mr. Regulus, that 1 attempted to walk through 
a tree by the way-side. A merry laugh rang close to my ear, 
and Richard Clyde sprang over the fence right before me. 

'^ It should have opened and imprisoned you, as a truant 
dryad," said he. " Of what are you tliinking, Gabriella, that 
you forget the impenetrability of matter, the opacity of bark, 
and the incapability of flesh and blood to cleave asunder the 

8 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 

leous fibres which oppose it, as the sonorous Johnson would 

ve obsen-ed on a similar occasion." 

'< I was thinking of you, Richard/' I answered with resolute 
ankness. 

^ Of me ! " he exclaimed, while his eyes sparkled with ani- 
nated pleasure. ^' Oh, walk through all the trees of Grandison 
Place, if you will honor me with one passing thought ** 

^^ You know you have always been like a brother to me, 
Richard." 

" I don't know exactly how a brother feels. You have taken 
my fraternal regard for granted, but I am sure I have never 
professed any." 

'^Pardon me, if I have believed actions more expressive 
than words. I shall never commit a similar error." 

With deeply wounded and indignant feelings, I walked rap- 
idly on, without deigning to look at one so heartless and capri- 
cious. Mr. Regulus was right He was not a proper com- 
panion. I would never allow him to walk with me again. 

<< Are you not familiar enough with my light, mocking way, 
Gabriella ? " he cried, keeping pace with my accelerated steps. 
^ Do not you know me well enough to understand when I am 
serious and when jesting? I have never professed fraternal 
regard, because I know a brother cannot feel half the — the 
interest for you that I do. I thought you knew it, — I dare 
not say more, — I cannot say less." 

" No, no, do not say any more," said I, shrinking with inde- 
finable dread ; ^ I do not want any professions. I meant not to 
call them forth. If I alluded to you as a brother, it was be- 
cause I wished to speak to you with the frankness of a sister. 
It is better that you should not walk with me fix)m school, — 
it is not proper, — people will make remarks." 

" Well, let them make them, — who cares ? " 

^'I care, a great deal. I will not be the subject of villa 
gossip." 

" Who put this idea in your head, Gkbriella? I know it 
not originate there. You are too artless, too unsuspid 



ERNEST LINWOOD. 87 

dk I I knowy" he added, with a heightened color and a raised 
one, ^ joa have been kept afler school ; you have had a lecture 
Ml propriety ; you cannot deny it." 

*^ I neither deny nor affirm any thing. It makes no differ- 
noe who suggested it. My own judgment tells me it is right*'' 

** The old fellow is jealous," said he with a laugh of derision, 
'but he cannot control my movements. The road is wide 
noa^ for us both, and the world is wider stilL" 

^ How can you say any thing so absurd and ridiculous ? " I 
xclaimed ; and vexed as I was, I could not help laughing at his 
ireposterous suggestion. 

^ Because I know it is the truth. But I really thought you 
bove the fear of village gossip, Grabriella. Why, it is more 
He than the passing wind, lighter than the down of the gossa- 
ler. I thought you had a noble independence of character, 
acapable of being moved by a whiff of breath, a puff of 
mpty air." 

^I trust I have sufficient independence to do what is right, 
nd sufficient prudence to avoid, if possible, the imputation of 
nx)ng," I replied, with grave earnestness. 

** Oh ! upright judge ! — oh ! excellent young sage ! " ex- 
humed Richard, with mock reverence. "Wisdom becometh 
bee so well, I shall be tempted to quarrel hereafter with thy 
miles. But seriously, Gabriella, I crave permission to walk 
ourteously home with you this evening, for it is the last of my 
acation. To-morrow I leave you, and it will be months before 
re meet again." 

"I might have spared you and myself this foolish scene, 
ben," said I, deeply mortified at its result. " I have incurred 
our ridicule, perhaps your contempt, in vain. We might have 
arted friends, at least" 

" No, by heavens ! Gabriella, not friends ; we must be some- 
bing more, or less than friends. I did not think to say this 
ow, but I can hold it back no longer. And why should I ? 
All my faults percliance thou knowesU' As was the boy, as 
I the youth, so most likely will be the man. No ! if you 



88 EKNESTLINWOOD. 

love me, Gabriclla, — if I may look forward to the day wlien I 
shall be to you friend, brother, guardian, lover, all in one, — 
I shall have such a motive for excellence, such a spring to am- 
bition, that I will show the world the pattern of a man, such as 
they never saw before.'* 

" I wish you had not said this," I answered, averting from 
his bright and earnest eye my confused and troubled glance. 
" "We should be so much happier as friends. We are so young, 
too. It will be time enough years hence to talk of such 
things." 

" Too young to love I TVe are in the very spring-time of 
our life, — the season of blossoms and fragrance, music and 
love, — oh, daughter of poetry ! is it you who utter such a 
thought? "Would you wait for the sultry summer, the dry 
autumn, to cultivate the morning flower of Paradise ? " 

^^ I did not dream you had so much hidden romance," said I, 
smiling at his metaphorical language, and endeavoring to torn 
the conversation in a new channel. ^ I thought you mocked at 
sentiment and poetic raptures." 

'^Love works miracles, Gabriella. You do not answer. 
You evade the subject on which all my life's future depends. 
Is there no chord in your heart that vibrates in harmony with 
mine ? Are there no memories associated with the oak trees 
of th6~^ood, the mossy stone at the fountain, the sacred rose of 
the gra¥e, propitious to my early and ever-growing love ? " 

He spoke with a depth of feeling of which I had never 
thought him possessed. Sincerity and truth dignified every 
look and tone. Yes ! there were undying memories, now 
wakened in all their strength, of the youthful champion of my 
injured rights, the sympathizing companion of my darkest hours ; 
the friend, who stood by me when other friends were unknown. 
There was many a responsive chord that thrilled at his voice, 
and there was another note, a sweet triumphant note never 
struck before. The new-bom consciousness of woman's power, 
the joy of being beloved, the regal sense of newly acquired 
dominion swelled in my bosom and flashed from my eye. Bat 




XBNESTLINWOOD. 89 

ti$ master-chord teas silent, I knew, I felt even then, that 
there was a golden string, down in the very depths of mj 
heart, too deep for his hand to touch. 

I felt grieved and glad. Grieved that I could not give a full 
response to his generous offering, — glad that I had capacities 
of loving, he, with all his excellences, could never fill. I tried 
to tell him what I felt, to express friendship, gratitude, and 
esteem ; but he would not hear me, — he would not let me go 
on. 

" No, no ; say nothing now," said he impetuously. " I have 
been premature. You do not know your own heart You do 
love me, — you will love me. You must not, you shall not 
deny me the privilege of hope. I will wiRintiiin the vantage 
ground on which I stand, — first fiiend, first lover, and even 
Ernest Linwood cannot drive me from it." 

^ Ernest Linwood ! " I exclaimed, startled and indignant. 
" You know he can never be any thing to me. You know my 
immeasurable obligations to his mother. His name shall be 
sacred from levity." 

^ It is. He is the last person whom I would lightly name. 
He has brilliant talents and a splendid position ; but woe to the 
woman who places her happiness in his keeping. He confides 
in no one, — so the world describes him, — is jealous and sus- 
picious even in friendship ; — what would he be in love ? " 

*• I know not. I care not, — only for his mother's and 
Edith's sake. Again I say, he is nothing to me. Richard, you 
trouble me very much by your strange way of talking. You 
have no idea how you have made my head ache. Please speak 
of common subjects, for I would not meet Mrs. Linwood so 
troubled, so agitated, for any consideration. See how beautiful 
the sunlight falls on the lawn ! How graceful that white cloud 
floats down the golden west I As Wilson says : — 

' Even in its very motion there is rest.' 



» t» 



" Yes I the sunlight is very beautiful, and the cloud is .very 
gmoeful, and you are beautiful and graceful in your dawning 
ooqiietry, the more so because you know it not. Well — obedi- 

8» 



90 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

ence to-day, reward to-morrow, Gktbriella. That was one of 
my old copies at the. academy." 

" I remember another, which was a favorite of Mr. Rega- 
ins — 

* To-morrow never yet 
On any human being rose and set/ " 

A few more light repartees, and we were at Mrs. Linwood's 
gate. 

" You will not come in ? " said I, half asserting, half interro- 
gating. 

'^ To be sure I will. Edith promised me some of her angelic 
harp music. I come like Saul to have the evil spirit of discon- 
tent subdued by its divine influence." 

Richard was a favorite of Mrs. Linwood. Whether it was 
that by a woman's intuition she discovered the state of feeling 
existing between us, or whether it was his approaching depart- 
ure, she was especially kind to him this evening ; she expressed 
a more than usual interest in his future prospects. 

" This is your last year in college," I heard her say to him. 
'^ In a few months you will feel the dignity and responsibility 
of manhood. You will come out fVom the seclusion of college 
life into the wide, wide world, and of its myriad paths, so intri- 
cate, yet so trodden, you must choose one. You are looking 
forward now, eagerly, impatiently, but then you will pause and 
tremble. I pity the young man when he first girds himself for 
the real duties of life. The change from thought to action, from 
dreams to realities, from hope to fruition or disappointment, is 
so sudden, so great, he requires the wisdom which is only 
bought by experience, the strength gained only by exercise. 
But it is well," she added, with great expression, " it is well as 
it is. If youth could command the experience of age, it would 
lose the enthusiasm and zeal necessary for the conception of 
great designs ; it would lose the brightness, the energy of hope, 
and nothing would be attempted, because every thing would be 
thought in vain. I did not mean to give you an essay," she 
said, smiling at her own earnestness, *^but a young friend 
on the threshold of manhood is deeply interesting to me« I 



EBNE8T LINWOOD. 91 

feel coostnuned to give him mj best counsels, my fervent 
prayers." 

*^ Thank yon, dear Madam, a thousand Umes,** he answered, 
his countenance lighted up with grateful pleasure ; '' you do not 
know what inspiration there is in the conviction that we are 
cared for by the pure and the good. Selfish as we are, there 
are few of us who strive to excel for ourselves alone. We must 
feel that there are some hearts, who bear us in remembrance, 
who will exult in our successes, and be made happier by our 
virtues." 

lie forgot himself, and though he addressed Mrs. Linwood, 
his eye sought mine, while uttering the closing words. I was 
foolish enough to blush at his glance, and still more at the 
placid, intelligent smile of Mrs. Linwood. It seemed to say, 

^ I understand it all ; it is all right, just as it should be. 
There is no danger of Richard's being forgotten." 

I was provoked by her smile, his glance, and my own foolish 
blush. As for him, he really did seem inspired. He talked of 
the profession he had chosen as the noblest and the best, a pro- 
fession which had conunanded the most exalted talents and 
most magnificent geniuses in the world. He was not holy 
enough fur the ministry ; he had too great reverence and regard 
for human life to be a physician ; but he believed nature had 
cremated him for a lawyer, for that much abused, yet glorious 
being, an honest lawyer. 

I suppose I must have been nervous, in consequence of the 
exciting scenes through which I had passed, but there was 
something in his florid eloquence, animated gestures, and evi- 
dent desire to make a grand impression, that strangely affected 
my risibles ; I had always thought him so natural before. I 
tried to keep from laughing ; I compressed my lips, and turn- 
ing my head, looked steadily from the window, but a sudden 
stammering, then a pause, showed that my unconquerable rude- 
ness was observed. I was sobered at once, but dared iiot look 
round, lest I should meet Mrs. Lin wood's reproving glance. 
He soon after asked Edith for a parting song, and while listen- 
ing to her sweet voice, as it mingled with the breezy straipB of 



92 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

the harp, mj excited spirit recovered its equilibrium* I thought, 
with regret and pain, of the levity, so unwonted in me, which 
had wounded a heart so frank and true, and found as much 
difficulty in keeping back mj tears, as a moment before I had 
done mj laughter. 

As soon as Edith had finished her song, he rose to take leave* 
He came to me last, to the little recess in the window where I 
stood, and extended his hand as he had done to Mrs. Linwood 
and Edith. He looked hurt rather than angrj, disappointed 
rather than sad. 

'^ Forgive me," said I, in a low voice ; ^ I value your friend- 
ship too much to lose it without an effort." 

The tears were in my eyes; I could not help it. I was 
sorry, for they expressed far more than I meant to convey* I 
knew it at once by the altered, beaming expression of his coun- 
tenance. 

" Give me smiles or tears, dear Gabriella," he answered, in 
the same undertone; ''only do not forget me, only think of me 
as I wish to be remembered." 

He pressed my hand warmly, energetically, while uttering 
these words; then, without giving me time to reply, bowed 
again to Mrs. Linwood and left the room. 

''A very fine, promising young man," said Mrs. Linwood, 
with emphasis. 

'' A most intelligent, agreeable companion," added the gentle 
Edith, looking smilingly at me, as if expecting me to say some- 
thing. 

" Very," responded I, in a constrained manner. 

'' Is tliat all ? " she asked, laying her soflt, white hand on my 
shoulders, and looking arcldy in my face ; ^ is that all, Gfibri- 
ella ? " 

'* Indeed, you are mistaken," said I, hastily ; " he is nothing 
more, — and yet I am wrong to say that, — he has been, — he 
is like a brother to me, Edith, and never will be any thing more." 

" Oh, these brother friends I " she exclaimed, with a burst of 
musical laughter, " how very nexir they seem ! But wait, Gi^ 
briella, till you see my brother, — he is one to boast of." 



EBNE8T LINWOOD. 93 

^ Edith!" said her mother. Edith turned her blue eyes 
from me to her mother, with a look of innocent surprise. The 
tone seemed intended to check her, — yet what had she said ? 

^ You should not raise expectations in Gabriella which will 
not be realized,'' observed Mrs. Linwood, in that quiet tone of 
hers which had so much power. '' Ernest, however dear he may 
be to us as a son and brother, has peculiar traits which some- 
times repel the admiration of strangers. His impenetrable 
reserve chills the warmth of enthusiasm, while the fitfulness 
of his morals produces constant inquietude. He was bom un- 
der a clouded star, and the horoscope of his destiny is darkened 
by its influence." 

** I love him better for his lights and shadows," said Edith, 
^ he keeps one always thinking of him." 

When would this shadowy, flashing being appear, " who 
kept one always thinking of him ? " 



CHAPTER XV. 

As I bad made an engagement with Mr. Regains for (me 
year, I remained with Dr. Harlowe's family during the winter 
months, while Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned to the city. 

The only novelty of that wintry season was the first corre- 
spondence of my life. Could any thing prove more strikingly 
my isolated position in the world than this single fact? It was 
quite an era in my existence when I received Mrs. Linwood's 
and Edith's first letters ; and when I answered them, it seemed 
to me my heart was flowing out in a gushing stream of expres- 
sion, that had long sought vent. I knew they must have 
smiled at ray exuberance of language, for the young enthusiast 
always luxuriates under epistolary influences. I had another 
corrcs{)ondent, a very unexpected one, Richard Clyde, who, 
sanctioned by Mrs. Linwood, begged permission to write to me 
as a friend. How could I refuse, when Mrs. Linwood said it 
would be a source of intellectual improvement as well as pleas- 
ure? These letters occupied much of my leisure time, and 
were escape-pipes to an imagination of the liigh-pressure kind. 
My old love of rhyming, too, rose from the ashes of former 
humiliation, and I wove many a garland of poesy, though no 
one but myself inhaled their fragrance or admired tlieir bloom. 

"As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean. 
Sweet flowers ore springing no mortal can sec, — " 

So in the solitude of my chamber, in the loneliness of my 
heart, in the breathing stillness of the night, blossomed the 
moon-bom flowers of poesy, to beautify and gladden my youth. 
Thus glided away the last tranquil season of my life. Am 

(94) 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 95 

was one day, so was the next Mrs. Harlowe's clock-work 
Tirtaes, which never run down, the doctor's agreeable careless- 
ness and imperturbable good-humor, the exceeding kindness 
of Mr. Regulos, who grew so gentle, that he almost seemed 
melancholy, — all continued the same. In reading, writings 
thinking, feeling, hoping, reaching forward to an uncertain fu- 
ture, the season of fireside enjoyments and comforts passed, -» 
spring, — summer. Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned, and 
I was once more installed in that charming apartment, amid 
whose rosy decorations " I seemed,** as Edith said, ^ a fairy 
queen." I walked once more in the moon-lighted colonnade, 
in the shadow of the granite walls, and felt that I was bom to 
be there. 

One evening as I returned home, I saw Edith coming through 
the lawn to meet me, so rapidly that she seemed borne on 
wings, — her white drapery fell in such full folds over her 
crutches it entirely concealed them, and they made no sound on 
the soft, thick grass. Her face was perfectly radiant 

**0h, Gabriella," she exclaimed, " he is coming, — brother is 
coming home, — he will be here in less than a week, — oh! I 
am so happy ! " 

And the sweet, affectionate creature leaned her head on my 
shoulder, and actually sobbed in the fulness of her joy. My 
own heart palpitated with strange emotions, with mingled curi- 
osity, eagerness, and dread. 

*^ Dear Edith,'* I cried, putting my arms around her, and kiss- 
•Dg her fair, infantine cheek, " I rejoice with you, — I could 
envy you if I dared. What a blessing it must be to have a 
brother capable of inspiring so much love ! " 

" lie shall be your brother too, Gabriella ! For, are you 
not my lister ? and of course he must be your brother. Come, 
let us sit do^Ti under the dear old elm and talk about him, for 
my heart is so full that I can speak and think of nothing else.** 

" And now," added she, as we sat under the kingly canopy 
of verdure, — on a carpet of living velvet, — "let me tell you 
wiy I love Ernest so very, very dearly. My father died when 
I WM ft little child, a litUe feeble child, a cripple as well as an 



9G ERNEST LINWOOD. 

invalid. Ernest is four years older than myself, and though 
when I was a little child he was but a very young boy, he al- 
ways seemed a protector and guardian to me. He never cared 
about play like other children, loving his book better than any 
thing else, but willing to leave even that to amuse and gratify 
me. Oh ! I used to suffer so much, so dreadfully, — I could 
not lie down, I could not sit up without pain, — no medicine 
would give me any relief. Hour after hour would Ernest hold 
me in his arms, and carry me about in the open air, never own- 
ing he was weary while he could give me one moment's ease. 
No one thought I would live beyond childhood, and I have no 
doubt many believed that death would be a blessing to the poor, 
crippled child. They did not know how dear life was to me in 
spite of all my sufferings ; for had I always been well, I never 
should have known those tender, cherishing cares which have 
filled my heart with so much love. It is so sweet to be petted 
and caressed as I have been I " 

^' It did not need sickness and suffering to make you beloved, 
Edith," I cried, twisting my fingers in her soft, golden curls. 
" Who could help loving you and wishing to caress you ? " 

'* Yes it did, Gabriella ; my Heavenly Father knew that it 
did, or He would never have laid upon me His chastening hand. 
Sickness and pain have been my only chastisements, and they 
are all past. I am not very strong, but I am well ; and though 
a cripple, my wooden feet serve me wonderfully well. I am so 
used to them now, they seem a part of myself." 

** I can never think of you as walking," I said, taking one of 
the crutches that leaned against the tree. The part which 
filled imder tlie arm was covered with a cushion of blue velvet, 
and tlie rosewood staff was mounted with silver. " You man- 
apje these so gracefully, one sc4ircely misses your f(;et." 

*' But P>nest, dear Ernest," interrupted she, " let us talk of 
him. You must not be influenced too much by my mother's 
words. She adores him, but her standard of perfection is so ex- 
alted few can attain it. The very excess of her love makes her 
alive to his defects. She knows your vivid imagination, and 
fears my lavish praises will lead you to expect a bemg of 8up«r- 




EBME8TLINWOOD. 97 

baman excellence. Oh, another thing I wanted to tell yoa. 
The uncle, for whom he was named, has died and left him a 
splendid fortune, which he did not need very much, you know. 
Had it not been for this circumstance, he would not have come 
back till autumn ; and now he will be here in a week, — in 
less than a week. Oh, Gabriella, Grandison Place must shine 
for its master's welcome." 

Another splendid fortune added to his own I Further and 
further still, seemed he removed from me. But what difference 
did it make ? Why did I think of him in reference to myself? 
How dared I do it, foolish and presumptuous girl I Then, he 
was seven jears older than myself. How mature I He would 
probably look upon me as a little girl ; and if he granted me the 
honors of womanhood, the student of Grottingen, the heir of 
two great fortunes would scarcely notice the village teacher, 
save as the orphan protdgde of his mother. 

I did not indulge these thoughts. I repelled them, for they 
were selfish and uncomfortable. If every one recorded their 
thoughts as I do, would they not, like me, pray for the blotting 
angel's tears ? 

In one week ! How soon ! 

Mrs. Linwood, quiet and serene as she was, participated in 
Edith's joyful excitement. She departed from her usual reli- 
ance on the subject, and checked not Edith's glowing warmth. 

In a family so wealthy, a dwelling so abounding in all the 
elegrancies and luxuries of life, the coming of a prince would 
not have occasioned any necessary disturbance. The chamber 
of the son and brother had been long prepared, but now the 
fa«ti<lious eye of affection discovered many deficiencies. The 
pictures must be change<l in position; some wanted more, some 
l«->s light ; tlie curtains were too heavy, the fiower vases too 
gorgeous. 

*• Does he mind these things much ? " I ventured to ask. 

*• He likes to see every thing round him elegant and cla'^sic,'* 
replied Edith ; " he has the most fastidious taste in the world. 
^ am so glad, Gabriella, that you are pretty, that you are really 
classically beautiful, for he will think so much more of you for 

9 



98 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

being so. He ought not, perhaps ; but one cannot help having 
a fine taste. He cannot abide any thing coarse or unrefined.** 

^ He will not think of me at all, I am sure he will not," I 
answered, while a vivid blush of pleasure at her sweet flattery 
stole over my cheek. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

It was mj office to gather aad arrange the flowers, to adorn 
the mansiony in oonseqaence ci Edith's lameness. This I did 
everj morning while they were sparkling with dew and the 
fragrance of night still imprisoned in their folded petals. I 
delighted in the task ; but now I coold not help feeling anusaal 
solicitude about my floral mission* I rose earlier than usual, 
and made fearful havoc in the garden and the green-house. 
My apron dripped with blossoms every step I took, and the 
carpet was literally strewed with flowers. The fairest and 
sweetest were selected for the room not yet occupied; and though 
one day afler another passed away and he came not, the scent 
of the blossoms lingered in the apartment, and diffusing in it 
an atmosphere of home love, prepared it for the wanderer's 
return. 

Every afWnoon the carriage was sent to the depot, which 
was several miles from Grandison Place, to meet the traveller, 
and again and again it returned empty. 

^ Let us go ourselves," said Mrs. Linwood, beginning to be 
restless and anxious. And they went — she and Edith. Though 
it was Saturday and I was free, I did not accompany them, for 
I felt that a stranger to him should not ^ intermeddle with their 

joy- 
Partaking of the restlessnes% of baffled expectation, I could 

not fix my mind on any occupation. I seated myself in the 

window recess and began to read, but my eyes were constantly 

wandering to the road, watching for the dust cloud that would 

roll before the advancing carriage. Dissatisfied with myself, I 

fltroUed oat on the lawn, and seating myself on the rustic 

(W) 



100 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

bench with my back to the gate, resolutely fastened my eyes to 
the pages I had been vainly fluttering. 

Shall I tell how foolish I had been ? Though I said to my- 
self a hundred times, '^ he will not look at me, or notice me at 
all,'' I had taken unusual pains with my dress, which though 
still characterized with the simplicity of mourning, was relieved 
of its severity of outline. A fall of lace soflened the bands of 
the neck and arms, which were embellished by a necklace and 
bracelets, which I valued more than any earthly possession 
They were the gift of Mrs. Linwood, who, having won from 
the grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it 
wrought with exquisite skill, and set in massy gold, as memo- 
rials of love stronger than death. Thus doubly precious, I 
cherished them as holy amulets, made sacred by the living as 
well as the dead. Edith had woven in my hair some scariet 
geraniums, my favorite flower. Though not very elaborately 
adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I 
could not help thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half 
gilded by light, how romantic it would be, if a magnificent 
strang(T should suddenly approach and as suddenly draw back, 
on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of the golden locks of 
Edith. I became so absorbed in painting this little scene, 
which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, 
that I did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing 
the lawn. I thought a shadow passed over the sunshine. The 
figure of a stranger stood between me and the glowing west. 
I started up with an irrepressible exclamation. I knew, at the 
first glance, that it was Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment 
of that haunting image, so long drawn on my youthful fancy* 
I should have known him in the farthest isles of the ocean, 
from the painting in the librarjc, the descriptions of Edith, and 
the sketches of my own imagination. His complexion had the 
pale, transparent darkness of eastern climes, and his eye a 
kind of shadowy splendor, impossible to describe, but which 
reminded me at once of his mother's similitude of the '' clouded 
star." He was not above the common height of man, yet he 




BBNS8T LINWOOD. 101 

gftre me an impression of ] rer and dignity, such as mere 
physical force could never i ire. 

**Jb this Griandison Pla e? my home?" he asked, lifting 
his hat with gentlemanly gi s fin his brows. His voice, too^ 
had that cultivated, well-m di 3d tone, which always marks 
the gentleman. 

^ It is, nr," I answered, trying to speak without embarrass- 
■leoL ** Mr. Linwood, I presume." 

I thooght I had made a mistake in his name, it sounded so 
strange. I had never heard him called any thing but Ernest 
Unwood, and Mr. Linwood had such a sti£^ formal soott^ I was 
<iaite disgusted with it. ^'< 

He again bowed, and looked impatiently towards the house. 

^ I saw a young female and thought it might be my sister, or 
I should not have intruded. Shall I find her, — shall I find my 
mother within ? " 

^ They have gone to meet you, — they have been looking 
for you these many days ; I know not how you have missed 
them." 

'^ By coming another road. I jumped firom the carriage and 
walked on, too impatient to wait its slow motions in ascending 
the hilL And they have gone to meet me. They really wish 
to see me back again ! " 

He spoke with deep feeling. The home thoughts and affeo- 
tioDs of years thrilled from his tone. This seemed one of those 
self-evident truths, that required no confirmation, and I made 
DO answer. I wondered if I ought to ask him to walk in, — 
him, the master and the heir ; whether I should ask him to take 
a seat on the oaken settee, where he could watch the carriage, 
ascending the winding hill. 

^ Do not let me disturb you," he said, looking at me with a 
questioning, penetrating glance, then added, ^ am I guilty of 
the rudeness of not recognizing a former acquaintance, who has 
passed from childhood to youth, during my years of absence ? " 

** No, sir," I answered, again wondering if politeness required 
to introduce myself. ^ I am a stranger to you, though for 

9» 



102 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

two years your mother's home has been mine. My name m 
Lynn, — Gabriella Lynn." 

I was vexed with myself for this awkward introdaction. I 
did not know what I ought to say, and painful blushes dyed my 
cheeks. I would not have mentioned my name at all, ooly, if 
his mother and sister delayed their coming, he might feel awk« 
ward himself, from not knowing what to call me. 

'^ My mother's protegee ! " said he, his countenance lighten* 
ing as he spoke. " Edith has mentioned you in her letters ; but 
I expected to see a little girl, not the young lady, whom I find 
presiding genius here." 

My self-respect was gratified that he did not look upon me as a 
child, and there was something so graceful and unostentatious in 
his air and manner, my self-possession came back without an 
effort to recall it. 

" Will you walk in ? " I asked, now convinced it was right 

^^ Thank you ; I am so weary &t the confinement of the car- 
riage, I like the freedom of the open air. I like this rich, vel- 
vet grass. How beautiful, how magnificent ! " he excliumed, 
his eye taking in the wide sweep of landscape, here and there 
darkened with shade, and at intervals literally blazing with 
the crimson sunliglvt, — then sweeping on over the swelling 
mountains, so grand in their purple drapery and golden crowns. 
" How exquisitely beautiful I My mother could not have 
selected a lovelier spot, — and these old granite walls I how 
antique, how classic they are ! " 

He turned and examined them, with a pleased yet criticizing 
eye. He walked up and down the velvet lawn with a firm, yet 
restless step, stopping occasionally to measure with his glance 
the towering oaks and the gigantic elm. I began to be uneasy 
at the protracted absence of Mrs. Lin wood, and kept my eyes 
fixed upon the road, whose dark, rich, slatish-colored surfaoey 
seen winding through green margins, resembled a stream of 
deep water, it was so smooth and uniform. I knew how full 
must be the heart of the traveller. I did not wish to intermpt 
his meditations even by a look. ^ 

We saw it coming, — the family carriage. I saw bis pile 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 108 

dieek flash at mj jojous exclamation. He moved rapidly to- 
wards the gate, while I ran into the house, up stairs and into 
my own room, that I might not intrude on moments too sacred 
for curiositj. 

In a little while, I could hear the sound of their mingling 
TOices coming up the long flight of marble steps, across the 
wide piazza, and then thej came soft and muffled from the 
drawing-room below. At first, forgetful of self, I sympathized 
in their joj. I rejoiced for my benefactress, I rejoiced for the 
tender and affectionate Edith. But after sitting there a long 
time alone, and of course forgotten in the rapture of this family 
reunion, thoughts of self began to steal over and chill the ardor 
of my sympathetic emotions. I could not help feeling myself 
a mote in the dazzling sunshine of their happiness. I could 
not help experiencing, in all its bitterness, the isolation of my 
own destiny. I remembered the lamentation of the aged and 
solitary Indian, ^' that not a drop of his blood flowed in the veins 
of a living being." So it was with me. To my knowledge, I 
had not a living relative. Friends were kind, — some were 
more than kind ; but oh ! there are capacities for love friends 
can never fill. There are niches in the temple of the heart made 
for household gods, and if they are left vacant, no other images, 
though of the splendor of the Grecian statuary, can "remove its 
desolation. Deep caUeth unto deep, and when no answer cometh, 
the waves beat against the lonely strand and murmur them- 
selves away. 

I tried to check all selfish, repining feelings. I tried to keep 
from envying Edith, but I could not. 

** O that I, too, had a brother ! " 

Was tha cry of my craving heart, and it would not be stilled. 
I wiped away tear after tear, resolving each should be the last, 
but the fountain was full, and every heaving sigh made it over- 
flow. 

At length I heard the sound of Edith's crutches on the stairs, 
fiunt and muffled, but I knew it from all other sounds. She 
could mount and dd^nd the 'state as lightly as a bird, in spite 
cf ker infirmity! 



104 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

'^ Ah I truant I " she scried, as she opened the door, ^ joa 
need not think to bide yourself here all night ; we want jou to 
come and help us to be happy, for I am so happy I know not 
what to do." 

Her eyes sparkled most brilliantly through those drops of 
joy, as different to the tears I had been shedding as the morn- 
ing dew is to December's wintry rain. 

^But what are you doing, Gabriella?" she added, sitting 
down beside me and drawing my hand from my eyes. '^In 
tears ! I have been almost crying my eyes out ; but jou do 
not look happy. I thought you loved me so well, you would 
feel happy because I am so. Do you not ? " 

'^ You will hate me for my selfishness, dear Edith. I did 
think of you for a long time, and rejoice in your happiness. 
Then I began to think how lonely and unconnected I am, and I 
have been wicked enough to envy your treasures of afiectioa 
for ever denied to mc. I felt as if there was no one to love me 
in the wide world. But you have remembered me, Edith, even 
in the depth of your joy, ingrate that I am. Forgive me," 
said I, passing my arms round her beautiful white neck. ^ I 
will try to be good after this." 

She kissed me, and told me to bathe my eyes and come right 
down, her mother said I must. Ernest had inquired what had 
become of me, and he would think it strange if I hid myself in 
this way. 

^'And you have seen him, Gabriella," she cried, and her 
tongue ran glibly while I plunged my face in a basin of cold 
water, ashamed of the traces of selfish sorrow. ^^ You have seen 
my own dear brother Ernest. And only think of your getting 
the first glimpse of him! What did you think of hiiji ? What 
do you think of him now ? Is he not handsome ? Is there not 
something very striking, very attractive about him ? Is he not 
different from any one you ever saw before ? " 

^ There is something very striking in his appearance," I 
answered, smiling at the number and rapidity of her questions ; 
'^ but I was so disconcerted, so foolish, I hardly dared to look 
him in the face. Has he changed since you sawliim last? ** 




SBNS8T LIKWOOD. 105 

^NoC much, — rather paler, I think; but perhaps it is onlj 
fatigue, or the languor following intense excitement I feel 
myself as if all mj strength were gone. I cannot describe my 
sensations when I saw him standing in the open gateway. I 
let mamma get out first I thought it was her right to receive 
the first embrace of welcome ; but when he turned to me, I 
threw myself on his neck, discarding my crutches, and dung to 
him, just as I used to do when a little, helpless, suffering child. 
And would you believe it, Gabriella ? he actually shed tears. 
I did not expect so much sensibility. I feared the world had 
hardened him, — but it has not Make haste and come down 
with me. I long to look at him again. Here, let me put back 
this scarlet geranium. You do not know how pretty it looks. 
Brother said — no — I will not tell you what he said. Yes, I 
will. He said he had no idea the charming young girl, with 
such a classic face and aristocratic bearing, was mother's little 
protegee." 

^ You asked him, Edith, I know you did." 

" Supposing I did, — there was no harm in it Come, I 
want you to see mamma; she looks so young and handsome. 
Joy is such a beautifier." 

^ I think it is," said I, as I gazed at her star-bright eyes and 
blush-rose cheeks. We entered the drawing-room together, 
where Ernest was seated on the sofa by his mother, with her 
hand clasped in his. Edith was right, — she did look younger 
and handsomer than I had ever seen her. She was usually 
pale and her face was calm. Now a breeze had stirred the 
wateni, and the sunshine quivered on the rippling surface. 

They rose as we entered, and came forward to meet us. My 
old trepidation returned. Would Mrs. Lin wood introduce me, — 
and if she did, in what manner? Would there be any thing in 
her air or countenance to imply that I was a dependent on her 
bounty, rather than an adopted daughter of the household? 
Hush, — these proud whispers. Listen, how kindly she speaks. 

** My dear Gabriella, this is my son, Ernest You know it 
already, and he knows that you are the child of my adoption. 
NeverthelesSy I must introduce you to each other." 



106 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Sarprised and touched by the maternal kindness of lier man- 
ner, (I ought not to have been surprised, for she was alwajB 
kind,) I looked up, and I know that gratitude and sensibilkj 
passed from my heart to my eyes. 

"• I must claim the privilege of an adopted brother," said he^ 
extending his hand, and I thought he smiled. Perhaps I was 
mistaken. His countenance had a way of suddenly lighting 
up, which I learned to compare to sunshine breaking throo^ 
clouds. The hand in which he took mine was so white, so deli- 
cately moulded, it looked as if it might have belonged to a 
woman, — but he was a student, the heir of wealth, not the son 
of labor, the inheritor of the primeval curse. It is a trifle to 
mention, — the hand of an intellectual man, — but I had been 
60 accustomed to the large, muscular fingers of Mr. ReguluSi 
which seemed formed to wield the weapon of authority, that I 
could not but notice the contrast 

How pleasantly, how jdelightfully the evening passed away I 
I sat in my favorite recess, half shaded by the light drapery 
of the window ; while Ernest took a seat at his mother*s side, 
and Edith occupied a low ottoman at his feet. One arm was 
thrown across his lap, and her eyes were Ufled to his face with 
an expression of the most idolizing affection. And all the 
while he was talking, his hand passed caressingly over her fair 
flaxen hair, or lingered amidst its glistering ringlets. It was a 
beautiful picture of sisterly and fraternal love, — the fairest I 
had ever seen. The fairest ! it was the first, the only one. I 
had never realized before the exceeding beauty and holiness of 
this tender tie. As I looked upon Edith in her graceful, en- 
dearing attitude, so expressive of dependence and love, many 
a sentence descriptive of a brother's tenderness floated up to 
the surface of memory. I remembered part of a beautiful 
hymn, — 

" Fair mansions in my Father's house 
For all his children wait ; 
And I, your elder brotfier go, 
To open wide the gate." 




EBNB8T LINWOOD. 107 

The SaTioiir of mankind called himself our brother,^ 
stamping with the seal of divinity the dear relationship. 

I had imagined I felt for Richard Clyde a sister^s regard. 
Noy no I Cold were my sentiments to those that beamed in 
Eldith's nptomed eyes. 

Ernest described his travels, his life abroad, and dwelt on 
the pecoliaritiea of German character, its high, imaginative 
traits, its mysticism and snperstiticm, till his tongue warmed 
into enthusiasm, — and one of his hearers at least felt the 
Inspiration of his eloquence. His mother had said he was 
reserved I I began to think I did not know the right meaning 
of the word. 1£ he paused and seemed about to relapse into 
silence, Edith would draw a long breath, as if she had just been 
inhaling some exhilarating gas, and exclaim,-— 

^ Oh ! do go on, brother ; it is so long since we have heard 
you talk ; it is such a luxury to hear a person talk, who really 
$ajf$ something." 

'^ I never care about talking, unless I do have something to 
foy," he answered, ^ but I think I have monopolized attention 
long enough. As a guest, I have a right to be entertained. 
Have you forgotten my love for music, Edith ? ** 

'^ O no I I remember all your favorite airs, and have played 
them a thousand times at least Do you wish to hear me now ? " 

*^ Certainly, I do; I have heard nothing so sweet as your 
Toice, dear Edith, since I heard your last parting song." 

He rose and moved the harp forward, and seated her at the 
instrument 

** Does not Miss Lynn play ? " he asked, running his fingers 
carelessly over the glittering strings. 

^ Who is Miss Lynn ? " repeated Edith, with a look of inquiry. 

I laughed at her surprise and my own. It was the first time 
I had ever beard myself called so, and I looked round involun- 
tarily to see who and where ^ Miss Ljnn" was. 

^ Oh, Gabriella ! " cried Edith, ** I did not know whom you 
meant I assure you, brother, there is no Miss Lynn here ; it 
18 Gabriella — our Gabriella — that is her name ; you most not 
eaU her by any other" 



108 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

'^ I shall be happy to avail myself of the privilege of uttering 
so charming a name. Does Miss Gabriella play ? " 

^ No, no, that is not right yet, Ernest ; you mast drop the 
Miss. Do not answer him, Gabriella, till he knows his lesson 
better." 

" Does Gabriella play ? " 

The name came gravely and melodiously from his tongue. 
The distance between us seemed wonderfully diminished by the 
mere breathing my Christian name. 

'* I do not,'' I answered, *^ but my love of music amounts to a 
passion. I am never so happy as when Ibtening to £dith's 
voice and harp." 

*^ She has never taken lessons," said Edith ; ^ if she had, she 
would have made a splendid musician, I am confident she would. 
Dear mother, when we go to the city next winter, Gabriella 
must go with us, and she must have music-masters, and we will 
play and sing together. She has taught in that old academy 
long enough, I am sure she has." 

^^ I think Gabriella has been taking some very important les- 
sons herself, while teaching in the old academy, which chances 
to be quite new, at least her part of it," answered Mrs. Lin- 
wood ; ^* but I have no intention of suffering her to remain there 
too long ; she has borne the discipline admirably." 

As I turned a grateful glance to Mrs. Linwood, my heart 
throbbing with delight at the prospect of emancipation, I met 
the eyes, the earnest, perusing eyes of her son. I drew back 
further into the shadow of the curtain, but the risen moon was 
shining upon my face, and silvering the lace drapery that floated 
round me. Edith whispered something to her brother, glancing 
towards me her smiling eyes, then sweeping her fingers lightly 
over the harp-strings, began one of the songs that Ernest loved. 

Sweetly as she always sang, I had never beard her sing so 
sweetly before. It seemed indeed " Joy's ecstatic trial," so airily 
her fingers sparkled over the chords, so clearly and cheerily 
she warbled each animated note. 

^^ I know you love sad songs best, Ernest, but I cannot sing 
them to-night," she said, pushing the instrument from her. 




KRNE8T LINWOOD. 109 

^ There is a little Grerman air, which I think I may recol- 
lect," said he, drawing the harp towards him. 

^Tou, Ernest!" cried Edith and his mother in the same 
breath, " you play on the harp ! " 

He smiled at their astonbhment. 

^^ I took lessons while in Germany. A fellow-student taught 
me, — a glorious musician, and a natiTC of the land of music, — 
Italy. There, the very atmosphere breathes of harmony." 

The very first note he called forth, I felt a master's touch 
was on the chords, and leaning forward I held my breath to 
listen. The strains rose rich and murmuring like an ocean 
breeze, then died away soft as wave falls on wave in the moon- 
light night. He sang a simple, pathetic air, with such deep 
feeling, such tender, passionate emotion, that tears involuntarily 
moLstened my eyes. All the slumbering music of my being 
responded. It was thus / could sing, — / could play, — I 
knew I could. And when he rose and resumed his seat by his 
mother, I could scarcely restrain myself from touching the 
same chords, — the chords still quivering from his magic hand. 

"'O brother!" exclaimed Edith, "what a charming sur- 
prise ! I never heard any thing so thrillingly sweet ! You do 
not know how happy you have made me. One more, — only 
one more, — Ernest." 

" You forget your brother is from a long and weary journey, 
Edith, and we have many an evening before us, I trust, of do- 
mestic joy like this," said Mrs." Linwood, ringing for the night- 
lamps. "To-morrow is the hallowed rest-day of the Lord, 
and our heartis so long restless from expectation, will feel the 
grateful calm of assured happiness. One who returns after a 
long journey to the bosom of home, in health and safety, has 
peculiar calls for gratitude and praise* He should bless the 
God of the traveller for having given his angels charge con- 
cerning him, and shielding him from unknown dangers. You 
feel all this, my son." 

She looked at him with an anxious, questioning glance. She 
feared that the mysticism of Germany might have obscured 
the brightness of his Christian faith. 

10 



110 EBNBST LIKWOOD. 

^< I am gratefiil, my mother," he answered with deep serious- 
ness, '^ grateful to God for the blessings of this hour. This has 
been one of the happiest evenings of mj life. Surely it is 
worth years of absence to be welcomed to such a home, and by 
such pure, loving hearts, — hearts in which I can trust without 
hypocrisy and without guile." 

f Believe all hearts true, my son, till you prove them false^ 

'^Faith is a gift of heaven, not an act of human will,^*^ 
replied. Then I remembered what Richard Clyde had said 
of him, and I thought of it again when alone in my chamber. 

Edith peeped in through the door that divided our rooms. 

^ Have we not had a charming evening ? " she asked. 

" Yes, very," I answered. 

^'How fond you are of that little adverb very,** she ex- 
claimed with a laugh; ^you make it sound so expressively. 
Well, is not Ernest very interesting?" 

« Very." 

" The most interesting person you ever saw ? " 

'^ You question me too closely, Edith. It will not do for me 
to speak as extravagantly as you do. I am not his sister, and 
the praise that falls so sweetly from your tongue, would sound 
bold and inappropriate from mine. I never knew before how 
strong a sister's love could be, Edith. Surely you can never 
feel a stronger passion." 

'^ Never," she cried earnestly, and coming in, she sat down 
on the side of the bed and unbound the ribbon from her slender 
waist, " The misfortune that has set me apart from my youth- 
ful companions will prevent me from indulging in the dreams 
of love. I know my mother does not wish me to marry, and I 
have never thought of the possibility of leaving her. I would 
not dare to give this frail frame and too tenderly indulged heart 
into the keeping of one who could never, never bestow the 
love, the boundless love, which has surrounded me from infancy, 
like the firmament of heaven. I have been sought in marriage 
more than once, it might be for reputed wealth or for imagined 
charms ; but when I compared my would-be lovers to EmesCy 
they faded into such utter insignificance, I could scarcely par- 




BBNB8T LINWOOD. Ill 

don their presumptioD. I do not think he has ever loved him- 
selfl I do not think he has ever seen one worthy of his love. 
I believe it would kiU me, Gabriella, to know that he loved 
another better than myself." 

For the first time I thought Edith selfish, and that she carried 
the romance of sisterly affection too far. 

^ Tou wish him, then, to be an old bachelor ! " said I, smiling. 

^ Oh ! do n't f^ply to him such a horrid name. I did not 
think of that. Grood night, darling. Manmia would scold me, if 
she knew I was up talking nonsense, instead of being in bed and 
asleep, like a good, obedient child." She kissed me and retired ; 
but it was long before I fell asleep. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

The next morning, as I was coining up the steps with mj 
white muslin apron full of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Lin- 
wood. I was always an early riser. Dear, faithful P^gy 
had taught me this rural hahit, and I have reason to bless her 
for it. 

^ I sec where you get your roses," said he ; I knew he did 
not mean the roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded 
grew brighter as he spoke. 

" Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own 
apartment ? " ho asked, as he turned back and entered the house 
with me, '^ or was it Edith's sisterly hand placed them there ? " 

^^ Are you pleased with them ? " I said, with a childish de- 
lip'ht. It seemed to me a great thing that he had noticed them 
at all. '^ As Edith is lame, she indulges me in carrying out her 
own sweet tastes. I assure you I esteem it an inestimable priv- 
ilege.*' 

" You love flowers, then ? " 

^' O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for 
them." 

^ And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in 
spite of your passionate love ? " 

^^ Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change 
from blossom to blossom." 

" You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something 
chilling in his tone, ^^ it is not love you feel for them, for that is 
unchangeable, and admits but one object." 

'^ I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily 
arranging the flowci^ in their vases, in which I had already 

(112) 




SBHE8T LINWOOD. 118 

placed some icj oold water. He walked up and down the room, 
stopping occasionallj to observe the process, and making some 
passing remark. I was astonished at finding myself so much at 
ease. I suppose the awe he inspired, like the fear of ghosts, 
subsided at the dawning of morning. There was something so 
exhilarating in the pure fresh air, in the dewy brightness of the 
hour, in the exercise of roaming through a wilderness of sweets, 
that my spirits were too elastic to be held down. He seemed 
to take an interest in watching me, and even altered the posi- 
tion of some white roses, which he said wanted a shading of 
green. 

** And what are these beautiful clusters laid aside for ? " he 
asked, taking up some which I had deposited on the table. 

^I thought," I answered, after a slight hesitation, ^that 
Edith would like them for your room." 

^ Then it is only to please Edith you place them there, not 
to please yourself? " 

*'*' I should not dare to do it to please myself," I hastily re- 
plied. 

I thought I must have said something wrong, for he turned 
away with a peculiar smile. I colored with vexation, and was 
glad that Edith came in to divert his attention from me. 

Nothing could be more gentle and affectionate than his greet- 
ing. Ue went up and kissed her, as if she were a little child, 
put his arm round her, and taking one of her crutches, made her 
lean on him for support. I understood something of the secret 
of her idolatry. 

Wlierc was the impenetrable reserve of which his mother 
liad spoken ? 

I had not yet seen him in society. As he talked with Edith, 
his head slightly bent and his profile turned towards me, I could 
look at him unobserved, and I was struck even more than the 
evening before with the transparent paleness of his complexion. 
Dark, delicate, and smooth as alabaster, it gave an air of ex- 
treme refinement and sensibility to his face, without detracting 
from its manliness or intellectual power. It was a face to 
peruse, to study, to think of, — it was a baffling, haunting face. 

10 • 



114 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Hieroglyphics of thought were there, too mysterious for the 
common eye to interpret. It was a dark lantern, flashing light 
before it, itself all in shadow. 

<'It is a shame that you must leave us, Gabriella," said 
Edith, when after breakfast her pony was brought to the door. 
^ Ernest," added she, turning to him, " I am so glad you are 
come. You must persuade mamma to lay her conunands on 
Gabriella, and not permit her to make such a slave of herself. 
I feel guilty to be at home doing nothing and she toiling six 
long hours." 

" It is Gabriella's own choice,*' cried Mrs. Linwood, a slight 
flush crossing her cheek. " Is it not, my child ? '* 

" Your wisdom guided my choice, dear madam," I answered, 
" and I thank you for it" 

" It would seem more natural to think of Miss — of Gabriel- 
la — as a pupil, than a teacher," observed Ernest, " if youth 
is the criterion by which we judge." 

" I am seventeen — in my eighteenth year," said I eagerly, 
urged by an unaccountable desire that he should not think me 
too young. * 

" A very grave and reverend age ! " said he sarcastically. 

I thought Mrs. Linwood looked unusually serious, and fearing 
I had said something wrong, I hastened to depart. Dearly as I 
loved my benefactress, it was not "that perfect love which 
casteth out fear." As her benevolence was warm, her justice 
was inflexible. Hers was the kind hand, but the firm nerves 
that could sustain a friend, while the knife of the surgeon 
entered the quivering flesh. She shrunk not from inflicting 
pain, if it was for another's good ; but if she wounded with 
one hand, she strewed balm with the other. Her influence was 
strong, controlling, almost irresistible. Like the sunshine that 
forced the wind'^blown traveller to throw aside liis cloak, the 
warmth of her kindness penetrated, but it also compelled, 

I had a growing conviction that though she called me her 
adopted child, she did not wish me to presume upon her kind- 
ness so far as to look upon her son in the familiar light of a 
brother. There was no fear of my transgressing her wishes in 




RRNEST LINWOOD. 115 

this respect I had already lost my dread, -^ my awe was 
melting away, but I could no more approach him with famil- 
iarity than if fourfold bars of gold surrounded him. I had 
another conviction, that she encouraged and wished me to 
return the attachment of Richard Clyde. Her urgent advice 
had induced me to accept the proffered correspondence with 
him, — a compliance which I afterwards bitterly regretted. He 
professed to write only as a friend, according to the bond, but 
amid the evergreen wreath of friendship, he concealed the 
glowing flowers of love. He was to return home in a few 
weeks. The commencement was approaching, which was to 
liberate him from scholastic fetters and crown him with the 
honors of manhood. 

^Why,** thought I, ^should Richard make me dread his 
return, when I would gladly welcome him with joy ? Why in 
wishing to be more than a friend, does he make me desire that 
he should be less ? And now Ernest Linwood is come back, 
of wliom he bo strangely warned me, methinks I dread him 
more than ever." 

3Irs. Linwood wo^d attend the commencement. I had 
heanl her tell Richard so. I had heard her repeat her inten- 
tion since her son's return. He, of course, would feel interested 
in meeting his old class mates and friends. They would all feel 
interested in seeing and hearing how Richard Clyde sustained 
his proud dii^tinction* 

^ Gubriella, especially," said Edith with a smile, which, 
sweet as it was, I thought extremely silly. I blushed with 
vexation, when Ernest, liiUng his grave eyes from his book, 
asked who was Richard Clyde. 

** You have seen him when he was quite a youth,** answered 
his motlier, ** but have probably forgotten him. He is a young 
man of great promise, and has been awarded the first lionors 
of his class. I feel a deep interest in him for his own sake, 
and moreover I am indebted to him for my introduction to our 
own Gabriella.'* 

** Indeed ! *' repeated her son, and ghincing towards me, his 
eooDtenance lighted up with a sudden look of intelligence. 



116 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Why need Mrs. Linwood have said that ? Whj need she 
have associated him so intimately and significantly with me? 
And why could I not keep down the rising crimson, which 
might be attributed to another source than embarrassment ? I 
opened my lips to deny any interest in Richard beyond that of 
friendly acquaintanceship ; but Mrs. Linwood's mild, serene, yet 
resolute eyes, beat mine down and choked my eager utterance. 

Her eyes said as clearly as words could say, ^ what matters 
it to my son, how little or how great an interest you feel in 
Richard Clyde or any other person?" 

*^ You must accompany us, Gabriella," she said, with great 
kindness. ^^ You have never witnessed this gathering of the 
literati of our State, and I know of no one who would enjoy it 
more. It will be quite an intellectual banquet" 

"I thank you, but I cannot accept the invitation," I an- 
swered, suppressing a sigh, not of disappointment at the neces- 
sity of refusal, but of mortification at the inference that would 
probably be drawn from this conversation. ^My vacation 
does not begin till afterwards." 

<' I think I can intercede with Mr. Regulus to release you," 
said IVIrs. Linwood. 

" Thank you, — I do not wish to go, — indeed I would much 
rather not, unless," I added, fearful I had spoken too energeti- 
cally, ^^ you have an urgent desire that I should." 

" I wish very much to make you happy, and I think you 
would enjoy far more than you now anticipate. But there is 
time enough to decide. There will be a fortnight hence." 

" But the dresses, mamma," cried Edith ; " you know she 
will need new dresses if she goes, and they will require some 
time to prepare." 

*^ As Gabriella will not come outy as it is called, till next 
winter," replied Mrs. Linwood, " it is not a matter of so much 
consecjuence as you imagine. Simplicity is much more charm- 
ing than ornament in the dress of a very young girL" 

" I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting 
his eyes from his book, ^* especially where artificial ornaments 
are superfluous." 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 117 

** I did not think 70a were listening to our remarks about 
dress," said Edith. ^ This is something quite new, brother." 

^I am not listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful 
not to betray yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had 
better retire to the library, then you can discuss with more 
freedom the mysteries of the toilet and the fascinations of 
dress." 

''No, — na We have nothing to say that you may not 
hear ; " but he rose and withdrew. Did he mean to imply that 
^ artificial ornaments would be superfluous " to me ? No, — it 
was only a general remark, and it would be vanity of vanities 
to apply it to myself. 

^ I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella,'' 
continued Edith. *^ Please lay aside your mourning and 
assume a more cheerful garb. You have worn it two long 
years. Only think how long ! It will be so refreshing to see 
you in white or delicate colors." 

I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow 
typified by their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The 
awful scenes they commemorated, — the throes of agony which 
rent away life from the strong, the slow wasting of the feeble, 
the solenmity of death, the gloom of the grave, the anguish of 
bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that followed, — 
all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment. 

" I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," 
I exclaimed ; and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears 
gushed unrestrainedly. ^' I sliall never cease to mourn for my 
mother." 

" I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, put- 
ting her arms round me with sympathizing tenderness. ^ I 
thought time had soAened your anguish, and that you could 
bear to speak of it now." 

^ And so she ought," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of mild 
rebuke. '^Time is God's ministering angel, commissioned to 
bind up the wounds of sorrow and to heal the bleeding heart. 
The same natural law which bids flowers to spring up and 
adorn the grave««od causes the blossoms of hope to bloom again 



118 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

in the bosom of bereavement. Memory should be immorta], 
but mourning should last but a season." 

*< I meant that 1 never should forget her/' I cried, my tears 
flowing gently under her subduing accents. ^ Dear Mrs. Lin- 
wood, you have made it impossible for me always to mouriL 
Yet there are times, when her remembrance comes over me 
with such a power that I am borne down by it to the level of 
my first deep anguish. These are not frequent now. I some- 
times fear there is danger of my being too happy after sustain- 
ing such a loss." 

^' Beware, my dear child, of cherishing the morbid sensibility 
which believes happiness inconsistent with the remembrance of 
departed friends. Life to your mother, since your recollection of 
her, was a sad boon. As she possessed the faith, and died the 
death of the Christian, you are authorized to believe that she 
now possesses an exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Can 
you take in the grandeur of the idea, — a weight of glory f 
Contrast it with the burden of care under which you saw her 
crushed, and you will then be willing to exchange mourning for 
the oil of joy, and the spirit of heaviness for the garment of 
praise." 

^' I am willing, dear Mrs. Linwood, my kindest friend, my 
second mother. I wiU in all things be guided by your counsel 
and moulded by your wiU. No, oh no, I would not for worlds 
rob my mother of the glorious inheritance purchased by a Sav- 
iour's blood. But tell me one thing, — must we all pass through 
tribulation before entering the kingdom of heaven ? Must we 
all travel with bleeding feet the thorny path of suffering, before 
being admitted into the presence of God ? " 

" The Bible must answer you, my child. Do you remember, 
in the apocalyptic vision, when it was asked, ' What are these, 
which are arrayed in white robes ? and whence come tliey ? ' 
It was answered, ' These are they which came out of great 
tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white 
in the blood of the Lamb.' " 

" Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 119 

day aDd night in his temple ; and he that sitteth on the throne 
shall dwell among them." 

I remembered them welL 

" Go on," I said, " that is not all" 

** Thej shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither 
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat." 

She paused, and her voice became tremulous from deep 
emotion. 

** One verse more," I cried, " only one." 

** For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed 
them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters ; and 
€iod shall wipe all tears from their eyes." 

There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed 
Tain and sacrilegious after this sublimest language of reve- 
lation. 

At length I said, — 

" Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 
^ is a sin to mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has 
wiped away." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

One week, and another week passed by, and every evening 
wiis as charming as the first of the return of Ernest Lin- 
wood. In that fortnight were compressed the social and intel- 
lectual joys of a lifetime. Music, reading, and conversation 
filled the measure of the evening hours. Such music, such 
reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I had 
been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear 
mother, to Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I 
had reason to tliink I could read remarkably well ; but I could 
not read like Ernest, — I never heard any one that could. He 
infused his own soul into the soul of the author, and brought 
out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat like one 
entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. 
Mrs. Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could 
do nothing but listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my 
finger endiJ, the veins throbbing in my temples, and the color 
coming and going in my cheek. 

** You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my 
flvscinated glance. 

" Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, " it 
is the passion of my soul." 

" You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry,** said 
ho, with a smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my 
language, " which is the regal one, the passion of passions ? ** 

** I can hardly imagine the existence of one without Ae 
other," I answered, " their harmony is so entire ; flowers are 
silent poetry, and poetry is written music." 

" And music ? " he asked. 

(120) 




KRNBST LINWOOD. 121 

^ Is the breath of heaTen, the language of angels. As the 
voice of Echo lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, 
when her beauteous frame had vanished, so music remains to 
show the angel nature we have lost" 

I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion 
warmed my souL 

^ Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, ^ and may well 
speak of the magic of numbers. She has a portfolio, filled with 
papers written, like Ezekiel's scroll, within and without. I wish 
you would let me get it, Gabriella, — do." 

^ Impossible ! " I answered, ** I never wrote but one poem for 
exhibition, and the experience of that hour was sufficient for a 
lifetime." 

**• You were but a child then, Grabriella. Mr. Regulus would 
give it a very different reception now, I know he would," said 
Edith. 

" If it is a child's story, will you not relate it ? " asked Ernest ; 
" you have excited my curiosity." 

•* Curiosity, brother, I thought you possessed none." 

" Interest is a better word. If I understand aright, the bud- 
dings of Gabriella's genius met with an untimely blight." 

I know not how it was, but I felt in an exceedingly ingenuous 
mood, and I related this episode in my childish histoiy without 
reserve. I touched lightly on the championship of Richard 
Clyde, but I was obliged to introduce it. I had forgotten that 
he was associated with the narration, or I should have been 
silent. 

^ This youthful knight, and the hero of commencement day 
arc one, then," observed Ernest. ^ He is a fortunate youth, with 
the myrtle and the laurel both entwining his brows ; you must 
be proud of your champion." 

'^ I am grateful to him," I replied, resolved to make a bold 
effort to remove the impression I knew he had received. Mrs. 
Linwood was not present, or I could not have spoken as I did. 
^ Ue defended me because he thought I was oppressed ; he be- 
friended me because my friends were few. He has the gener- 
ous spirit of chivalry which cannot see wrong without seeking 

11 



122 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

to redress it, or sufTering without wishing to relieve it I am 
under unspeakable obligations to him, for he it was who spoke 
kindly of the obscure little girl to your mother and sister, and 
obtained for me the priceless blessing of their love.** 

" I dare say they feel very grateful to him, likewise," said he, 
in a tone of ^genuine feeling. ^^ I acknowledge my share of the 
obligation. But is he so disinterested as to claim no recom- 
pense, or does he find that chivalry, like goodness, is its own ex- 
ceeding great reward ? " 

*•*' 1 thought I regarded him as a brother, till now Edith har 
convinced me I am mistaken/' 

'^ How so ? " he asked, with so peculiar an expression, I for- 
got what I was going to say. 

^^ How so ? " he repeated, while Edith leaned towards him 
and laid her hand on his. 

^^ By showing me how strong and fervent a sister's love can 
be." 

His eyes Hashed ; they looked like fountains of light, full to 
overflowing. His arm involuntarily encircled Edith, and a 
smile, beautiful as a woman's, curled his lips. 

^^ How he does love her ! " thought I ; ^ strong indeed must 
be the counter charm, that can rival hers." 

I had never seen his spirits so light as they were the remain- 
der of the evening. They rose even to gaiety ; and again I 
wondered what had become of the reserve and moodiness whose 
dark shadow had preceded his approach. 

" We are so happy now," said Edith, when we were alone, 
*' I dread the interruption of company. Ernest does not care 
for it, and if it be of an uncongenial kind, he wraps himself in 
a mantle of reserve, that neither sun nor wind can unfold. 
After commencement, our house will be overflowing with city 
friends. They will return with us, and we shall not probably 
be alone again for the whole summer." 

She sighed at the anticipation, and I echoed the sound. I 
was somebody now ; but what a nobody I should dwindle into, 
in comparison with the daughters of wealth and fashion who 
would gather at Grandison Place I 




ERNEST LIKWOOD. 123 

" Ernest mast like joa verj mach, Grabriella, or he would 
not show the iDterest he does in all that concerns joa. You do 
not know what a compliment he pays you, because you have not 
seen him in company with other young girls. I have some- 
times felt quite distressed at his indifierence when they have 
been my guests. He has such a contempt for afiectation and 
display, that he cannot entirely conceal it He is not apt to 
express his opinion of any one, but there are indirect ways of 
discovering it I found him this morning in the library, stand- 
ing before that beautiful picture of the Italian flower girl, which 
you admire so much. He was so absorbed, that he did not per- 
ceive my entrance, till I stole behind him and laid my hand on 
his shoulder. * Do you not see a likeness ? ' he asked. ' To 
whom?' <To Gabriella.' 'To Gabriella!' I repeated. 
* Ye?, it is like her, but I never observed it before.' * A very 
striking resemblance,' he said, 'only she has more mind in 
her fjice.' " 

^ That enchanting picture like me ! " I exclaimed, *^ impossi- 
ble ! There is, there can be no likeness. It is nothing but 
association. He knows I am the flower-girl of the house, and 
that is the reason he thought of me." 

I tried to speak with indifference, but my voice trembled 
with delight 

The next morning, when I came in from the garden, all laden 
with flowers, an irresistible impulse drew me to the library. It 
was very early. The hush of repose still lingered over the 
household, and that particular apartment, in which the silent 
eloquence of books, paintings, and statues hung like a solemn 
spell, seemed in such deep quietude, I started at the light echo 
of my own footsteps. 

I stole with guilty consciousness towards the picture, in whose 
lineaments the fastidious eye of Ernest Linwood had traced a 
similitude to mine. They were all engraven on my memory, 
bat now they possessed a new fascination ; and I stood before it, 
gazing into the soil, dark depths of the eyes, in which innocent 
mildness and bashful tenderness were mingled like the dart" 
cUcwre of an Italian moonlight ; gazing on the dawning smile 



124 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

that seemed to play over the beautiful and glowing lips, and the 
briglit, rich, dark hair, so carelessly, gracefully arranged you 
could almost see the balmy breezes of her native dime rustling 
amid the silken tresses ; on the charming contour of the head 
and neck, slightly turned as if about to look back and ^tc a 
parting glance at the garden she had reluctantly quitted. 

As I thus stood, with my hands loaded with blossoms, a 
flower basket suspended from my arm, and a straw hat such as 
shepherdesses wear, on my head, — my garden costume, — in- 
voluntarily imitating the attitude of the lovely flower girl, the 
door, which had been lefl ajar, silently opened, and Ernest Lin- 
wood entered. 

Had I been detected in the act of stealing or counterfeiting 
money, I could not have felt more intense shame. He knew 
what brought me there. I saw it in his penetrating eye, his 
half-suppressed smile ; and, ready to sink with mortification, I 
covered my face with the roses I held in my hands. 

^^ Do you admire the picture ? " he asked, advancing to where 
I stood ; " do you perceive the resemblance ? " 

I shook my head without answering ; I was too much discon- 
certed to speak. What would he think of my despicable van- 
ity, my more than childish foolishness ? 

'*• 1 am glad to see we have congenial tastes," he said, with a 
smile in his voice. " I came on purpose to gaze on that diarm- 
in<; representation of youth and innocence, without dreaming 
that its original was by it." 

"Original!" I repeated. "Surely you do mock me, — 'tis 
but a fancy sketch, — and in nought but youth and flowers re- 
sembles me." 

" We cannot see ourselves, and it is well we cannot. The 
image reflected from the mirror is but a cold, faint shadow of 
the living, breathing soul. But why this deep confusion, — that 
averted face and downcast eye ? Have I oflended by my intru- 
sion? Do you wish me to withdraw, and yield to you the 
privilege of solitary admiration ? " 

" It is I who am the intruder," I answered, looking wistfully 
towards the door, tlirough which I was tempted to rush at 




ERNK8T LINWOOD. 125 

once. ** I thought joa had not risen, — I thought, — I 
came* — 

^ And why did yon come at this hour, Grabriella? and what 
has caused such excessive embarrassment ? Will you not be 
ingenuous enough to tell me ? " 

^ I will,'' answered I, calmed by the geqtle composure of his 
manner, ^ if you will assert that you do not know already." 

'^ I do not knawy but I can imagine. £dith has betrayed my 
admiration of that picture. You came to justify my taste, and 
to establish beyond a doubt the truth of the likeness." 

** No, indeed ! I did not ; I cannot explain the impulse which 
led me hither. I only wish I had resisted it as I ought." 

I suppose I must have looked quite miserable, from the 
efforts he made to restore my self-complacency. He took the 
basket from my arm and placed it on the table, moved a chair 
forward for me, and another for himself, as if preparing for a 
morning tete a tete* 

^ What would Mrs. Linwood say, if she saw me here at this 
early hour alone with her son ? " thought I, obeying his motion, 
and tossing my hat on the light stairs that were winding up be- 
hind me. I did not fell the possibility of declining the inter- 
view, for there was a power about him which overmastered 
without their knowing it the will of others. 

^If you knew how much more pleasing is the innocent 
shame and artless sensibility you manifest, than the ease and 
assurance of the practised worldling, you would not blush for 
the impuse which drew you hither. To the sated taste and 
weary eye, simplicity and truth are refreshing as the spring- 
time of nature aAer its dreary winter. The cheek that blushes, 
the eye that moistens, and the heart that palpitates, are sureties 
of indwelling purity and candor. What a pity that they are as 
evanescent as the bloom of these flowers and the fragrance 
they exhale ! You have never been in what is called the great 
world ? " 

** Never. I passed one winter in Boston ; but I was in deep 
mourning and did not go into society. Besides, your mother 
thought me too young. It was more than a year ago." 

11 ♦ 



126 KRNE8TLINWOOD. 

'< You will be considered old enough this winter. Do yoa 
not look forward with eager anticipations and bright hopes to 
the realization of youth's golden dreams ? ** 

^^ I as oflen look forward with dread as hope. I am told they 
who see much of the world, lose their faith in human virtue, 
their belief in sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good 
and fair. All the pleasures of the world would not be an 
equivalent for the loss of these.** 

" And do you possess all these now ? *' 

'^ I think I do. I am sure I ought I have never yet been 
deceived. I should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, 
as soon as the truth of those who have professed to love me. 
Your mother, Edith — and " — 

'< Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that troth- 
searching glance which oflen brought unbidden words to my 
lips. 

" Yes ; I have perfect reliance in his friendship." 

^^ And in his Ipve," he added ; ^ why not finish the sen- 
tence ? " 

" liecause I have no right to betray his confidence, — even 
supposing your assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only 
feeling, whose existence I am willing to admit, and even that 
was drawn from me. What if / turn inquisitor?" said I, 
suddenly emboldened to look in his face. ^ Have you^ who 
have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling influ- 
ences which you deprecate for me ? " 

*^I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. 
" Have you never been told so ? " 

^^ If I have, it required your own assertion to make me 
believe it." 

^^ Do you not see the shadow on my brow ? It has been 
there since my cradle hours. It was bom with me, and is a 
part of myself, — just as much as the shadow I cast upon the 
sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thundeiv 
cloud from Jehovah's arch." 

I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as 
if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employ- 




EBNK8T LINWOOD. 127 

ment was prophetic. He was puUing the rose-leaves from mj 
basket, and scattering them unconsciooslj on the floor. 
^ See what I have done," said he, looking down on the 



^ So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed b j 
the cmel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the 
fidlen petals. 

^ Let them be," said he, sadly, ** yoa cannot restore them." 

^ I know it ; bat I can remove the ruins." 

I was qnite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. 
I could not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had 
been so bountiAU of his gifts, should appreciate so little the 
blessings given* He, to talk of shadows, in the blazing noon- 
day of fortune ; to pant with thirst, when wave swelling afler 
wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing coolness 
his meeting lips. 

Oh, starrer in the midst of God's plenty ! think of the wretched 
son? of famine, and be wise. 

^ You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising 
and walking to one of the alcoves, in which the books were 
arranged. *^ Seldom indeed do I allude to my own individuality. 
Forgf't it I liave been very happy lately. My soul, like a 
higfi mountain, lifls itself into the sunshine, leaving the vapors 
and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an atmosphere 
pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with the 
fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms." 

He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, 
glanced from it to the flower girl, and back again from the 
flower girl to his own image* 

^ Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, ^ flowers and thorns ; 
such is the union nature loves. And is it not well ? Clouds 
temper the dazzle of the sunbeams, — thorns protect the tender 
flowers. Have you read many of these books?" he asked, 
with a sudden transition. 

^ A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear 
him resume his natural tone and manner ; ^ too many for my 
mind's good." 



128 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

"How SO? These are all select works, — golden sheaves 
of knowledge, gathered from the chaff and bound bj the rei^ 
ing hand." 

"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. Mj rapid 
eye takes in more than my judgment can criticize or my 
memory retain. That is one reason why I like to hear another 
read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity of light, and 
then the echo lingers in the ear." 

" Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of 
another dwell in sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments ; 
when the reader, glowing with enthusiasm, turns from the page 
before him to a living page, printed by the hand of God, in 
fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the shining 
heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories 
reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright** 

^^Oh ! ** thought I, ^^ how many times have I thus listened; 
but has he ever thus read ? " 

I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning, — 
it was so rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading 
flowers and the passing moments ; unconscious of the faint 
vibration of that deepy under chords which breathes in low, pas- 
sionate strains, life's tender and pathetic mirror. 

" I am glad you like this room," he continued. " Here you 
can sit, queen of the past, surrounded by beings more glorioos 
than those that walk the earth or dwell in air or sea. You 
travel not, yet the wonders of earth's various climes are around 
and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at your bidding, 
and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold. 
And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human 
heart are laid bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. 
But I am detaining you too long. Your languid blossoms 
reproach me. When you come here again, do not forget that 
we have here thought and felt in unison." 

Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. 
She started on seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an 
anxious, troubled look. 

" You are become an early riser, my son,*' she said. 




BBNKST LINWOOD. 129 

^You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my 
mother ? " 

^ Certainly ; bot it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning 
air would be more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp 
with the mould of antiquity." 

*^ We have brought the dewy morning within doors,** said he ; 
while I, gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Lin- 
wood to move, that I might leave the room. She stood between 
me and the threshold, and for the first time I noticed in her 
£tyce a resemblance to her son. It might be because a slight 
cloud rested on her brow. 

** You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morn- 
ing," she gravely observed to me. ^ It is almost the breakfast 
hour, and you are still in your garden costume." 

My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the 
fear of her displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left 
its glow upon my cheek. 

^ Let me assist you,** he cried, in an animated tone. ^ It 
was I who encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, 
if blame indeed there be. There is a homely proverb, that 
* many hands make light work.' Come, let us prove its truth." 

I thought Mrs. Lin wood sighed, as he followed me into the 
drawing-room, and with quick, graceful fingers, made ample 
amends for the negligence he had caused. His light, careless 
manner restored me to ease, and at breakfast Mrs. Linwood's 
countenance wore its usual expression of calm benevolence. 

Had I done wrong ? I had sought no clandestine interview. 
Why should I ? It was foolish to wish to look at the beautiful 
flower girl ; but it was a natural, innocent wish, bom of some- 
thing purer and better than vanity and self-love. 



1 



CHAPTER XIX. 

I LINGERED after school was dismissed, to ask permiaskm 
of Mr. Kegulus to attend the commencement. It was Mn. 
Linwood's wish, and of course a law to me. 

" Will you release mc one week before the session closes ? ** 
I asked, ^ Mrs. Linwood does not wish to leave me behind, bat 
I do not care much to go." 

*^ Of course I will release you, my child, but it will seem as 
if the flower season were past when you are gone. I wonder 
now, how I ever taught without your assistance. I wonder 
what I shall do when you leave me ? " 

"Mrs. Linwood wished me to say to you," said I, quite 
touched by his kind, affectionate manner, ^ that she does not 
wish me to renew our engagement. She will take me to town 
next winter, satisfied for the present with the discipline I have 
experienced under your guardian care." 

" So soon ! " he exclaimed, " I was not prepared for this.** 

" So soon, Mr. Regulus ? I have been with you one long 
year." 

" It may have seemed long to you, but it has been short as a 
dream to me. A very pleasant time has it been, too pleasant 
to last." 

He took up his dark, formidable ferula, and leaned his fore- 
head thoughtfully upon it. 

'' And it has been pleasant to mc, Mr. Regulus. I dreaded 
it very much at first, but every step I have taken in the path 
of instruction has been made smooth and green beneath my feet. 
No dull, lagging hour has dragged me backward in my daily 
duties. Tiie dear children have been good and afiectionate^ 

(130) 




KRNK8T LINWOOD. 181 

and 701I9 my dear master, have crowned me with loviogkind- 
ness from day to day. How shall I convince yoa of my grati- 
tude, and what return can I make for your even parental care ? ** 

I spoke earnestly, for my heart was in my words. His unva- 
r3ring gentleness and tenderness to me, (since that one fiery 
shower that converted for a time the Castalian fountain into a 
Dead Sea,) had won my sincere and deep regard. He had 
seemed lately rather more reserved than usual, and I valued 
still more his undisguised expressions of interest and affection. 

^ You owe me nothing," said he, and I could not help notic- 
ing an unwonted trepidation in his manner, and on one sallow 
cheek a deep flush was spreading. ^ Long years of kindness, 
tenfold to mine, could not atone for the harshness and injustice 
of which I was once guilty. You will go into the world and 
blush like Waller's rose, to be so admired. You will be sur- 
rounded by new friends, new lovers, and look back to these 
walls as to a prison-house, and to me, as the grim jailer of your 
youth." 

^ No indeed, Mr. Regulus ; you wrong yourself and me. 
Memory will hang many a sweet garland on these classic walls, 
and will turn gratefully to you, as the benefactor of my child- 
hood, the mentor of my growing years." 

My voice choked. A strange dread took possession of me, 
he looked so agitated, so little like himself. His hand trembled 
so that it dropped the ruler, that powerful hand, in whose strong 
grasp I bad seen the pale delinquent writhe in terror. I hardly 
know what I dreaded, but the air seemed thick and oppressive, 
and I longed to escape into the open sunshine. 

** Gabriella, ray child," said he, " wait one moment I did 
not think it would require so much courage to confess so much 
weakness. I have been indulging in dreams so wild, yet so 
sweet, that I fear to breathe them, knowing that I must wake to 
the cold realities of life. I know not how it is, but you have 
twined yourself about my heart so gradually, so gently, but so 
strongly, that I cannot separate you from it. A young and 
fragrant vine, you have covered it with beauty and freshness. 
Yoa have diffused within it an atmosphere €i spring. Yoa 



132 EUNEST LINWOOD. 

thought the cold mathematiciaD, the stem philosopher oonld not 
feci, but I tell thee, child, we are the very ones that am and do 
feel. There is as much difierence between our love and the 
boyish passion which passes for love, as there is between the 
flash of the glowworm and the welding heat that fuses bars of 
steel. Oh ! Gabriella, do not laugh at this confession, or deem 
it lightly made. I hope nothing, — I ask nothing ; and jet if 
you could, — if you would trust your orphan youth to my 
keeping, I would guard it as the most sacred trust God ever 
gave to man." 

He paused from intense emotion, and wiped the drops of 
perspiration from his forehead, while I stood ready to sink with 
shame and sorrow. No glow of triumph, no elation of grate- 
ful vanity warmed my heart, or exalted my pride. I felt hum- 
bled, depressed. Where I had been accustomed to look up 
with respect, I could not bear to look down in pity, it was so 
strange, so unexpected. I was stunned, bewildered. The 
mountain had lost its crown, — it had fallen in an avalanche at 
my feet 

^^ Oh, Mr. Regulus I " said I, when I at last liberated my im- 
prisoned voice, '^ you honor me too much. I never dreamed of 
sucli a, — such a distinction. I am not worthy of it, — indeed 
I am not. It makes me very unhappy to think of your cher- 
ishing such feelings for me, who have looked up to you so long 
with so much veneration and respect. I will always esteem 
and revere you, dear Mr. Regulus, — always think of you with 
gratitude and aifection ; but do not, I entreat you, ever allude 
again to any other sentiment. You do not know how very mis- 
erable it makes me." 

I tried to express myself in the gentlest manner possible, but 
the poor man had lost all command of his feelings. He had 
confined them in his breast so long, that the moment he re- 
leased them, they swelled and rose like the genius liberated 
from the chest of the fisherman, and refused to return to the 
prison-house they had quitted. His brows contracted, his lipe 
quivered, and turning aside with a spasmodic gesture, he oovi* 
ered his face with his handkerchief. 




XBNK8T LINWOOD. 133 

I could not bear this, — it quite broke mj heart I felt as 
remoraefbl as if every tear he was hiding was a drop of blood. 
Walking hastily to him, and laying my hand on his arm, I ex- 
daimed, — 

*^ Do n% my dear master I " and burst into tears myself. 

How foolish we must have appeared to a bystander, who 
knew the cause of our tears, — one weeping that he loved too 
well, the other that she could not love in return. How ridicu- 
lous to an uninterested person would that tall, awkward, 
grave man seem, in love with a young girl so much his junior, 
so childlike and so unconscious of the influence she had ac- 
quired. 

^ How foolish this is I ** cried he, as if participating in these 
sentiments. Then removing the handkerchief from his face, he 
ran his fingers vigorously through his hair, till it stood up 
frantically round his brow, drew the sleeves of his coat strenu- 
ously over his wrists, and straightening himself to his tall 
height, seemed resolved to be a man once more. I smiled after- 
wards, when I recollected his figure ; but I did not then, — 
thank heaven, I did not smile then, — I would not have done it 
for *• the crown the Bourbons lost." 

Anxious to close a scene so painful, I approached the door, 
though with a lingering, hesitating step. I wanted to say 
something, but knew not what to utter. 

•^ You will let me be your friend still," said he, taking my 
band in both his. ^ You will not think worse of me, for a 
weakness which has so much to excuse it. And, Gabriclla, my 
dear child, should the time ever come, when you need a friend 
and counsellor, should the sky so bright now be darkened with 
clouds, remember there is one who would willingly die to save 
you from sorrow or evil. Will you remember this ? " 

*• Oh, Mr. Regulus, how could 1 forget it ? " 

" There are those younger and more attractive," he continued, 
•* who may profess more, and yet feel less. I would not, however, 
be unjust. God save me from the meanness of envy, the baseness 
of jeak)usy. I fear I did not do justice to young Clyde, when I 
warned you of his attentions. I believe he is a highly honor- 

12 



134 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

able young man. Ernest Linwood," — he paused, and bis 
shaded eyes sought mine, with a glance of penetrating power,— 
^^ is, I am told, a man of rare and fascinating qualities. Pie ui 
rich beyond his need, and will occupy a splendid position in 
the social world. His mother will probably have very exaUt»d 
views with regard to the connections he may form. Forgive 
me if I am trespassing on forbidden ground. I did not mean, 
— I have no right," — 

He stopped, lor my confusion was contagious. My face crim- 
soned, even my fingers were suffused with the rosy hue of 
shame. Nor was it shame alone. Indignation mingled with it 
its deeper dye. 

" If you suppose, Mr. Regulus," said I, in a wounded and 
excited tone, *^ that I have any aspirations, that would conflict 
with Mrs. Lin wood's ambitious views, you wrong me very 
much. Oh ! if I thought that he, that she, that you, or any- 
body in the world could believe such a thing " — 

I could not utter another word. I remembered l^lrs. Lin- 
wood's countenance when she entered the library. I remem- 
bered many thing:*, which might corroborate my fears. 

" You are as guileless as the unweaned lamb, Gabriella, and 
long, long may you remain so," he answered, with a gentleness 
that disarmed my anger. " Mine was an unprompted sugges- 
tion, about as wi.>e, I perceive, as my remarks usually aie. I 
am a sad blunderer. May heaven pardon The pain I l^ve 
caused, for the sake of my pure intentions. I do not believe it 
I)ossible for a designing thought to enter your mind, or a feeling 
to iind admittance into your heart, that angels might not cherish. 
J>ut you are so young and inexperienced, so unsuspecting and 
con tiding ; — but no matter, God bless you, and keep you for- 
ever under liis most holy guardianship I " 

Wringing my hand so hard that it ached long afterwards, he 
turned away, and descended the 6{{i\*i> more ra])idly than he had 
ever done before. In his excitement he forgot his hat, and was 
pursuing his way bareheaded, through the sunny atmosphere. 

*• lie mu^t not go through town in that way, for the boys to 
liiugh at him," thought I, catching up his hat and running to 
the door. 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 135 

^ Mr. Regalus ! " I cried, waving it above my head, to attract 
his attention. 

He started, turned, saw the hat, run his fingers through his 
long hair, smiled, and came back. I met him more than half 
waj. 

** I did not know that I had left mj head, as well as mj heart 
behind," said he, with a sicklj effort to be facetious ; ^ thank 
jou, (rod bless you once again." 

With another iron pressure of my aching hand, he dashed his 
hat on his lion-like head and lefl me- 

I walked home as one in a dream, wondering if this in* 
tenriew were real or ideal ; wondering if the juice of the 
milk-white flower, *^ made purple by love's wand," had been 
squeezed by fairy fingers into the eyes of my preceptor, in his 
slumbering hours, to cause this strange passion ; wondering why 
tlie spirit of love, like the summer wind, stealing softly through 
the wliir^pering boughs, breathes where it listeth, and we cannot 
tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth ; and wondering 
mos't of all if — but I cannot describe the thoughts that drifted 
through my mind, vague and changing as the clouds that went 
hurraing after each other over the deep blue ether. 



CHAPTER XX. 

Commencement day ! — a day of feverish anxiety and ex- 
citement to the young student, who is to step forth before the 
public eye, a candidate for the laurels of fame ; — a day of wea- 
riness and stiffness to the dignified professors, obliged to sit hour 
after hour, listening to the florid eloquence whose luxuriance 
they have in vain attempted to prune, or trying to listen while 
the spirit yawns and stretches itself to its drowsy length ; — a 
day of intense interest to the young maiden, who sees among 
the youthful band of aspirants one who is the " bright particular 
star " round which her pure and trembling hopes revolve. 

It was a day of excitement to me, for every thing was novel, 
and tlierefore interesting. It was the first time I had ever been 
in a dense crowd, and I felt the electric fluid, always collected 
where the great heart of humanity is throbbing, thrilling in my 
veins, and ready to flasli at the master-stroke of eloquence. I 
was dazzled by the brilliant display of beauty and fashion that 
lighted up the classic walls as with living sunbeams. Such 
clusters of mimic blossoms and flowing ringlets wreathed to- 
gether round fair, blooming faces ; such a cloud of soft, airy 
drapery floating over lithe figures, swaying forward like light 
boughs agitated by the wind; such a fluttering of snowy 
fans, making the cool, pleasant sound of rain drops pattering 
among Ai)ril leaves ; such bright eager eyes, turned at every 
sounding step towards the open door, — I had never looked 
upon the like before. I sat in a dream of delight, without 
thinking that it might be thought vulgar to appear delighted, 
and still more to express undisguised admiration. 

I dared not look to the platform, where the faculty and 8tii- 

(136) 




ERNEST LIKWOOD. 137 

dents were arranged in imposing ranks, for there was one pair 
of familiar, sparkling eyes, that were sure to beat mine back 
with their steadfast gaze. I did not like this persevering scru- 
tiny, for I was sure it would attract the attention of others, and 
then draw it on myself. He had grown taller, Richard Clyde 
hadf since I had seen him, his countenance was more manly, 
his manner more polished. He had been with us the evening 
before, but the room was crowded with company, and I was 
careful not to give him a moment's opportunity of speaking to 
me alone. But I read too well in his sincere and earnest eyes, 
that time had wrought no change in the fervor of his feelings, 
or the constancy of his attachment. 

Mrs. Linwood, though surrounded by friends of the most 
distinguished character, honored him by signal marks of atten- 
tion. I was proud of him as a friend. Why did he wish to be 
more? 

*• What a fine young man Clyde is ! *' I heard some one re- 
mark who sat behind us. ^ It is said he is the most promising 
student in the university.'' 

*• Yes," was the reply. ** 1 have heard that several wealthy 
gentlemen in Boston are going to send him to Europe to com- 
plete his education, as his own income will not allow him to 
incur tlie expense." 

** That i.-* a great compliment," observed the first voice, " and 
I liave no doubt he deserves it. They say, too, that he is be- 
trothed to a young girl in the country, very pretty, but in most 
indigent circumstances, — an early attachment, — children's ro- 
mance." 

Was it possible that village goi^sip had reached these venera- 
ble walls ? But liark to the other voice. 

^ I liave heard so, but they say she has been adopted by a 
rich lady, whose name I have forgotten. Her own mother was 
of very mysterious and disreputable character, I am told, 
whom no one visited or respected. Quite an outcast." 

I started as if an arrow had passed through my ears, or 
nUher entered them, for it seemed quivering there. Never 
befihre had I heard one sullying word breathed on the spotless 

12* 



1 38 E R N E 8 T L I N W O O D . 

snow of my mother's character. Is it strange that the cdd, 
venomous tongue of slander, hissing at my very back, should 
make me shudder and recoil as if a serpent were there ? 

A hand touched my shoulder, lightly, gently, but I knew 
its touch, though never felt but once before. I looked op in- 
voluntarily, and met the eyes of Ernest Linwood, who was 
standing clo.'^e to the seat I occupied. I did not know he xns 
there. He had wedged the crowd silently, gradually, till be 
reached the spot he had quitted soon after our entrance, to 
greet his former class mates. I knew by his countenance that 
he had heard all, and a sick, deadly feehng came over me. He, 
to hear my mother's name made a byword and reproach, my- 
self alluded to as the indigent daughter of an outcast, — he, 
who seemed already lifted as high above me on the eagle wings 
of fortune, as the eyry of the king-bird is above the nest of 
the swallow, — it was more than I could bear. 

I said I knew by his countenance that he had heard all. I 
never saw such an expression as his face wore, — such burning 
indignation, such withering scorn. I trembled to think of the 
central fires from which such flames darted. As he caught my 
glance, an instantaneous change came over it. Compassion 
softened every lineament. Still his eye of power held me 
down. It said, " be quiet, be calm, — I am near, be not afraid.'* 

" I wish I could g(;t yon a glass of water," said he, in a low 
voice, for I suppose I looked deadly pale ; " but it would be im- 
possible I fear in this crowd, — the aisles are impcnetnible.** 

" Thank you," I answered, " there is no need, — but if I 
could only leave." 

I looked despairingly at the masses of living beings on every 
side, crowding the pews, filling the aisles, standing on the win- 
dow-sills, on tlie tops of the pews, leaning from the gallery, — 
and felt that I was a ])risoner. The sultry air of August, 
confined in the chapel walls, and deprived of its vital principle 
by so many heaving lungs, weighed oppressively on mine. I 
could feel behind me the breathing of the lips of slander, and 
it literally seemed to scorch me. Ernest took my fan from 
my hand and fanned me without intennission, or I think I 
must have fainted. 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 139 

As I sat with downcast eyes, whose drooping lashes were 
heavy with unshed tears, I saw a glass of water held before 
me by an unsteady hand. I looked up and saw Richard Clyde, 
his student's robe of flowing black silk gathered up by his lefl 
arm, who had literally forced his way through a triple row of 
men. We were very near the platform, there being but one 
row of pews between. 

I drank the water eagerly, gratefully. Even before those 
blistering words were uttered, I had felt as if a glass of cold 
water would be worth all the gems of the East ; now it was life 
itself. 

^ Are you ill, ' Gabriella ? " whispered Mrs. Linwood, who 
with Edith sat directly in front, and whose eyes had watched 
anxiously the motions of Richard. '^ Ah ! I see this heat is 
killing you.** 

^ Tluit is the, I do believe," hissed the serpent tongue be- 
hind me. 

^ Hush, she may hear you." 

All was again still around me, the stillness of the multitudi- 
nous sea, for every wave of life heaved restlessly, producing a 
kind of murmur, like that of rustling leaves in an autumnal 
fore>t. Then a sound loud as the thunders of the roaring ocean 
came rusliing on the air. It was the burst of acclamation which 
greeted Richard Clyde, first in honor though last in time. 1 
bent my ear to listen, but the words blent confusedly together, 
forming one wave of utterance, that rolled on without leaving 
one idea behind. I knew he was eloquent, from the enthusias- 
tic applause which occasionally interrupted him, but I had 
lost the power of perception ; and had Demosthenes risen from 
his gmve, it would scarcely have excited in me any emotion. 

Wai this my introduction to that world, — that great world, 
of which I had heard and thought and dreamed so much ? How 
soon had my garlands faded, — my fine gold become dim I 
Could they not have spared me one day, me, who had never in- 
jured them ? And yet they might aim their barbed darts at me. 
I would not care for that, — oh, no, it waM not that It was the 
blow that attacked an angel mother's fame. O my mother I 



140 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

could they not spare thee even in thy grave, where the wicked 
are said to cejuse from troubling and the weary are at rest? 
Could they not let thee sleep in peace, thou tempest-tost and 
weary heartcMl, even in the dark and narrow house, sacred from 
the footstep of the living ? 

Another thundering burst of applause called my spirit from 
the grass-grown sod, made damp and green by the willow's shade, 
to the crowded church and the bustle and confusion of life. 
Then followed the presentation of the parchment rolls and the 
ceremonies usual at the winding up of this time-honored day. 
It all seemed like unmeaning mummery to me. The majestic 
president, with his little flat black cap, set like a tile on the top 
of his head, was a man of pasteboard and springs, and even the 
beautiful figures that lighted up the walls had lost their coloring 
and life. There was, indeed, a wondrous change, independent 
of that witliiu my own soul. The excessive heat had wilted 
these flowers of loveliness and faded their bright hues. Their 
uncurled ringlets hung dangling down their cheeks, whose roses 
were heightened to an unbecoming crimson, or withered to a 
sickly pallor ; their gossamer drapery, deprived of its delicate 
stiflening, flapped like the loose sails of a vessel wet by the 
spray. Here and there was a blooming maiden, still as fair 
and cool as if sprinkled with dew, round whom the atmosphere 
S(»enied refreshed as by the sparkling of a jet d*eaiu These, 
like myself, were novices, wlio had brought with them the dewy 
innocence of life's morning hours ; but they had not, like me, 
heard the hissing of the adder among their roses. 

" He ciilni, — be courageous," said Ernest, in a scarcely 
audible tone, as bending down he gave the fan into my hand ; 
*' the arrow rebounds from an impenetrable surfjice." 

As we turned to leave the church, I felt my luind drawn 
round the arm of Kichai-d Clyde. How he had dell the living 
mass so quickly I could not tell ; but he had made his way 
where an arrow could hardly penetrate. I looked round for 
Edith, — but Ernest watched over her, like an earthly provi- 
dence. My backward glance to her prevented my seeing the 
faces of tho^e who were seated behind me. But what mattered 




ERKS8T LINWOOD. 141 

it ? They were strangerSy and heaven grant that thej would 
erer remain so. 

" Are yoa entirely recovered ? " asked Richard, in an anzions 
tone. *^ I never saw any one's coontenance change so instan- 
taneously as yours. Yoa were as white as your cambric 
handkerehiefl You are not accustomed to such stifling crowds, 
where we seem plunged in an exhausted receiver.** 

^ I never wish to be in such another,'' I answered, with em- 
phasis. *^ I never care to leave home again." 

"I am sorry your first impressions should have been so 
disagreeable, — but I hope you have been interested in some 
small degree. You do not know what inspiration there was in 
your presence. At first, I thought I would rather be shot from 
the cannon's mouth than speak in your hearing ; but after the 
first shock, you were like a fountain of living waters playing on 
my souL*' 

Poor Richard ! how could I tell him that I had not heard 
understandingly one sentence that he uttered? or how could 
I explain the cause of my mental distraction ? He had cast 
his pearls to the wind ; his diamonds to the sand. 

Mnt. Linwood was a guest of the president, who was an 
intimate and valued friend. I would have given worlds for a 
little soliixiry nook, where I could hide myself from every eye ; 
for a seat beneath the wild oaks that girdled the cottage of my 
childhood ; but the house was thronged with the literati of the 
State, and wherever I turned I met the gaze of strangers. If 
I could have seen Mrs. Linwood alone, or Edith alone, and told 
them how wantonly, how cruelly my feelings had been wounded, 
it would have relieved the fulness, the oppression of my heart. 
But that was impossible. Mrs. Linwood's commanding social 
position, her uncommon and varied powers of conversation, 
the excellence and dignity of her character, made her the 
cynosure of the literary circle. Edith, too, from her exquisite 
loveliness, the sweetness of her disposition, and her personal 
misfortune, which endeared her to her friends by the tenderness 
and sympathy it excited, was a universal favorite ; and all these 
attractive qualities in both were gilded and enhanced by the 



1-12 ERNES^ -LINWO'OD. 

wealth wbich enabled them to impart, even more than they 
received. Tlicy were at home here, — they were in the midst 
of friends, whose society was congenial to their tastes, and I 
resolved, whatever I might suffer, not to mar their enjo}-meiit 
by my selfish griefs. Ernest had heard all, — perhaps he be- 
lieved all. He did not know my mother. He had never seen 
that face of heavenly purity and holy sorrow. Why shouid he 
not believe ? 

One thing I could do. I could excuse myself from dinner, 
and thus secure an hour's quietude. I gave no false plea, when 
I urged a violent heacla<.'he as the reason for my seclusion. My 
tein])les ached and throbbed as if trying to burst from a metal- 
lic band, and the sun rays, thougli sifted through curtains of 
folding lace, fell like needle points on my shrinking eyas, 

*•* Poor Gabriella ! " said Edith, laying her cool soi\ hand on 
my hot brow, "I did not think you were such a tender, green- 
house plant. 1 cannot be^r to leave you here, when you could 
enjoy such an intellectual banquet below. Let me stay with 
you. I fear you are n;ally very ill. How unfortunate ! " 

^' No, no, dear Edith ; you must not think of such a thing. 
Just close those blinds, and give me that fan, and I shall be 
very comfortable here. If possible let no one come in. If I 
could sleep, this paroxysm will pass over." 

" There, sleej) if you can, dear Gabriella, and be bright for 
the evening party. You knew the dresses mamiiia gave us for 
th(^ occasion, both alike. I could not think of wearing mine, 
unless you were with me, — and you look so charmingly in 
white ! " 

P^dith had such a sweet, coaxing way with her, she magnet- 
ized j)ain and suMued self-distrust. The mere touch of her 
gentle hand had allayed the fever of my brain, and one glance 
of her loving blue eye tem])ered the anguish of my spirit. She 
lingered, unwilling to leave me, — drew the blinds together, 
making a soft twilight amid the glare of day, saturated my hand- 
kerchief with cologne and laid it on my temples, and placing a 
beautiful bouijuet of flowers, an otfering to hei'self, on my pil- 
low, kissed me, and lefl me. 




SRNE8T LINWOOD. 148 

I watched the sound of her retreatiDg footstepSy or rather of 
her crutches, ttU thej were no longer heard ; then burying mj 
face in my pillow, the sultry anguish of my heart was drenched 
in tears. Oh ! what a relieving shower 1 It was* the thunder- 
shower of the tropics, not the slow, drizzling rain of colder climes. 
I wept till the pillow was as wet aS the turf on which the heavens 
have been weeping. I clasped it to my bosom as a shield 
against invisible foes, but there was no sympathy in its downy 
fiofuiess. I sighed for a pillow beneath whose gentle heavings 
the heart of human kindness beats, I yearned to lay my head 
on a mother's breast. Yea, cold and breathless as it was now, 
beneath the clods of the valley, it would still be a sacred resting- 
place to me. The long pressure of the grave-sods could not 
crush out the impression of that love, stronger than death, 
dc<*per than the grave. 

Had the time arrived when I might claim the manuscript, 
k'ft a? ii hallowed legacy to the oq)han, who had no other inhcri- 
tarce ? Had I awakened to the knowledge of woman's destiny 
to luvo and suffer ? Dare I ask myself this question ? Through 
the morning twilight of my heart, was not a star trembling, 
whose silver rays would never be quenched, save in the night- 
shades of death ? Was it not time to listen to the warning voice, 
who>e accent.-:, echoing from the tomb, must have the power and 
grandeur of prophecy ? Yes ! I would ask Mrs. Linwood for 
my mother's history, as soon as we returned to Grandison 
Place ; and if 1 found the shadow of disgrace rested on the mem- 
ory ot* her I so loved and worshipped, 1 would fly to the utter- 
most part-i of the earth, to avoid that searching eye, which, next 
to tlie gbuiee of Omnipotence, I would shun in guilt and shame. 

•• Thry say ! " Who arc thet/ ? who are the cowled monks, 
the hoodt^d friars who glide with shrouded faces in the proces- 
sion ot* life, muttering in an unknown tongue words of mysteri- 
ous inii>ort? Who are t/tet/ f tJie midnight assassins of reputa- 
tion, who lurk in the by-lanes of society, with dagger tongues 
6haq»ened by invention and envenomed by malice, to draw the 
blood of innocence, and, hyena-like, banquet on the dead ? Who 
are t/tey f They are a multitude no man can number, black- 



144 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

stoled familiars of the inquisition of slander, searching for tio- 
tims in every city, town, and village, wherever the heart of 
humanity throbs, or the ashes of mortality find rest 

Oh, coward, coward world — skulkers ! Give me the bold 
brigand, who thunders along the highways with Hashing weapon 
that cuts the sunbeams as well as the shades. Give me the 
pirate, who unfurls the black flag, emblem of his terrible trade, 
and shows the plank which your doomed feet must tread ; but 
save me from the they-sayers of society, whose knives are hid- 
den in a velvet sheath, whose bridge of death, is woven of flow- 
ers ; and who spread, with invisible poison, even the spotless 
whiteness of the winding-sheet. 




CHAPTER XXI. 

^ Gabriella, awake ! " 

** Mother, is the daj dawning ? " 

^ My child, the sun is near his setting ; you have slumbered 
long." 

I dreamed it was my mother's voice that awakened me, — 
then it seemed the voice of Richard Clyde, and I was lying 
undcT the great shadow of the oak, where he had found me 
years before half drowned in tears. 

*• Gabriella, my dear, — it is time to dress for the evening." 

This time I recognized the accents of Mrs. Lin wood, and I 
rose at once to a sitting position, wondering if it were the rising 
or the declining day that shone around me. Sleep had led its 
down on my harassed spirits, and its balm on my aching head. 
I felt languid, but tranquil ; and when Mrs. Linwood aifection- 
ately but decidedly urged upon me the necessity of rising and pre- 
paring to descend to the drawing-room, I submissively obeyed. 
She must have seen that I had been in tears, but she made no 
allusion to them. Her manner was unusually kind and tender ; 
but there was an expression in her serene but commanding 
eye, that bade me rise superior to the weakness that had sub- 
dued me. Had her son spoken of the cause of my emotion ? 

A few moments after, Edith entered, and her mother rejoined 
her friends below. 

Edith held in her hand a fresh bouquet of the most exqui- 
site green-house plants, among which the scarlet geranium ex- 
hibited its glowing blossoms. She held it towards me, turned 
it like a prism in various directions to catch the changing rays, 
while itB odoriferoas breath perfumed the whole apartment. 

18 (i«) 



146 EUNEST LINWOOD. 

" I am glad you have another, Edith," I said, looking at the 
wilted llowers on my pillow. " These have fulfilled tlieir mis- 
sion most sweetly. I have no douht they inspired soothiog 
dreams, though I cannot remember them distinctly." 

" Oh ! these are yours" she answered, " sent by a friend who 
was quite distressed at your absence from the dinner-table. 
Cannot you guess the donor ? " 

'' It will not require much aeuteness," replied I, taking the 
flowers, and though I could not help admiring their beauty, 
and feeling grateful for the attention, a shade of regret clouded 
their welcome ; ^' I have so few friends it is easy to oo^jectare 
who thus administers to my gralification." 

^' Well, who is it ? You do not hazard the utterance of the 
name." 

'^No one but Richard Clyde would think of giving me a 
token like this. They are very, very sweet, and yet I wish be 
had not sent them." 

" Ungrateful Gabriolla ! No one but Richard I A host of 
common beings melted into one, could not make the equal of 
the friend who made me the bearer of this charming ofiering. 
Is the gift of Ernest greeted with such indifference ? " 

" Eniest ! " I repeated, and the blood bounded in my veins 
like a stream leaping over a mountain rock. ^' Is he indeed so 
kind ? " 

1 bent my head over the beautiful messengers, to hide the joy 
too deop for words, the gratitude too intense for the gift. As I 
thus looked down into the heart of the flowers, I caught a 
glimpse of something white folded among the green leaves. 
Edith's back was turned as she smoothed the folds of an India 
muslin dress that lay upon the bed. I drew out the paper with 
a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words : — 

" Sweet flower girl of the nortli ! be not cast down. The 
most noxious wind changes not the purity of marble ; neither 
can an idle breath shake the confidence bom of unsullied inno- 
cence." 

These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to 
me. They were embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 147 

bloom, and henceforth they were engraven on tablets on which 
the hand of man had never before traced a character, which 
the whole world might not peruse. 

Oh, what magic there was in those little words ! Slander had 
lost its sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour. 
I put the talisman in my bosom and the flowers in water, — for 
tkeff might fade. 

There was no one in the room but Edith and myself. She 
aat on the side of the bed, a cloud of white fleecy drapery 
floating over her lap; a golden arrow, the very last in the 
day, God's quiver darted through the half-open blinds into 
the clusters of her fair ringlets. She was the most unaflected 
of human beings, and yet her every attitude was the perfection 
of grace, as if she sat as a model to the sculptor. I thought 
tliere was a shade of sadness on her brow. Perhaps she had 
seen me conceal the note, and imagined something clandestine 
and mysterious between me and her brother, that brother 
whose exclusive devotion had constituted the chief happiness 
of her life. Though it was a simple note, and the words were 
few, intended only to comfort and sustain, they were of such 
priceless value to me, I could not bear that even Edith's eye 
should become familiar with its contents. But her love and 
confidence were too dear to be sacrificed to a refinement of ro- 
mance. 

** Dear Edith," said I, putting the note in her hand, and an 
arm round her neck, ^ it was a gift of consolation you brought 
me ; *^ and then I told her all that I liad overheard, and of the 
exceeding bitterness of my anguish. 

^ I know it, — mamma and I both know it, — brother told 
us. I did not speak of it, for you looked as if you had forgot- 
ten it aflcr I came in, and I did not wish you to recall it. You 
must forget it, indeed you must« Such cruel insinuations can 
never alienate from you the friends who love you. They rather 
bind you closer to our hearts. Come, we have no time to lose. 
You know we must assist each other." 

I insisted on being her handmaid first, and lingered over her 
loflet till she literally esc^>ed from my hands and drew behind 



148 EBNEST LINWOOD* 

the lace curtains like a star behind a cloud. Our dresses were 
alike, as the generous Edith had willed. They were of the 
most exquisite India muslin, simply but elegantly decorated 
with the finest of lace. I had never before been arrayed for an 
evening party, and as the gauzy fulness of drapery fell so 
softly and redundantly over the form I had been accustomed to 
see in the sad-colored robes of mourning, I hardly recognized 
my own lineaments. There was something so light, so ethereal 
and graceful in the dress, my spirit caught its airiness and 
seemed borne upwards as on wings of down. I was about to 
clasp on my precious necklace and bracelets of hair, when ob- 
serving Edith's beautiful pearl ornaments, corresponding so 
well with the delicacy and whiteness of her apparel, I laid them 
aside, resolving to wear no added decoration but the flowers, 
consecrated as the gift of Ernest. 

*' Come here, Gabriclla, let me arrange that fall of lace 
behind/' said Edith, extending a beautiful arm, on which the 
pearl-drops lay like dew on a lily. Both arms passed round 
my neck, and I found it encircled like her own with pearls. 
Tlien turning me round, she clasped first one arm, and then the 
otlier with fairy links of pearl, and then she flung a roseate of 
these ocean flowers round my head, smiling all the time and 
uttering exclamations of delighted admiration. 

" Now do n't cry, Gabriella dear. You look so cool — so 
liiir — so like a snowdrop glittering with dew. And do n't put 
your arms round my neck, beautiful as they are, quite so close. 
You will spoil my lace, darling. You must just wear and keep. 
tlio [>earls for the love of me. Mamma sanctions the gift, so 
you need have no scruples about accepting them. Remember, 
now, we must have no more diamonds, not one, though of the 
purest water and sparkling in heaven's own setting." 

W]mt could I say, in answer to such abounding kindness? 
In spite of her prohibition the diamonds would mingle with the 
pearls ; but the sunbeams shone on them both. 

What a day had this been to me ! It seemed as if I had 
lived years in the short space of a few hours. I hod never 
felt so utterly miserable, not even over my mother's new made 




BRNB8T LINWOOD. 149 

graTe. I had never felt so supremelj happy, — so buoyant 
with hope and joy. The flowers of Ernest, the pearls of 
Edith, came to me with a message as gladdening as that which 
waked the silver harpstrings of the morning stars. I did not, 
I dared not misunderstand the meaning of the firsL They were 
sent as halm to a wounded spirit ; as breathers of hope to the 
ear of despair ; but it was Ids hand that administered the balm ; 
ki$ spirit that inspired the strain. 

" How radiant you look, Grabriella ! " exclaimed Edith, her 
sweet blue eyes resting on me with affectionate delight. ^ I 
am so glad to see you come out of the cloud. Now you justify 
our pride as well as our affection.^ 

^ But I — but all of us look so earthly at your side, Edith "— 

^ Hush! flatterer— and yet, who would not prefer the beau- 
ty of earth, to the cold idealism of spirit loveliness ? I have 
never sought the admiration of men. K I look lovely in the 
eyes of Ernest, it is all I desire. Perhaps all would not believe 
me ; but you wilL I yield you the empire of every heart but 
his. There, I would not willingly occupy the second place. 
A strange kind of jealousy, GabrieUa ; l>ut I am just so weak." 

She smiled, nay even laughed, — called herself very weak, 
very foolish, but said she could not help it She believed she 
was the most selfish of human beings, and feared that tliis was 
the right hand to be cut off, the right eye to be plucked out. 
I was pained to hear her talk in this way ; for I thought if any 
one ever gained the heart of Ernest, it would be dearly pur- 
chased by the sacrifice of Edith's friendship. But it was only 
a jesting way of expressing her exceeding love, afler all. She 
was not selfish ; she was all that was disinterested and kind. 

I followed her down stairs into a blaze of light, that at 
first dazzled and bewildered me. The chandeliers with their 
myriad pendants of glittering crystal emitted thousands of 
brilliant coruscations, like wintry boughs loaded with icicles 
and sparieling in a noonday sun. While through the open 
windows, the departing twilight mingled its soil duskiness with 
the splendors of the mimic day. 

Ernest Linwood and Bichard Clyde were standing near th« 

18 • 



150 EBNEST LINWOOD* 

entrance of the door to greet us. The former imme^telf 
advanced and gave me his arm, and Richard walked bj the 
side of Edith. I heard him sigh as they fell behind us, and my 
heart echoed the sound. Yet how could he sigh with Edith al 
his side ? As I walked through the illuminated drawing-rooniy 
escorted by one on whom the eyes of the fashionable worid 
were eagerly bent, I could not help being conscious of the 
glances that darted on me from every direction. Ernest Lin- 
wood was the loadstar of the scene, and whoever he distin- 
guished by his attention must be conspicuous by association. I 
felt this, but no embarrassmept agitated my step or dyed my 
check with blushes. The deep waters were stirred, stirred to 
their inmost depths, but the surface was calm and unruffled. 
Mrs. Lin wood was at the head of the room, the centre of an intel- 
lectual circle. She was dressed, as usual, in silver gray ; but the 
texture of her dress was the richest satin, shaded by blonde. 
The effect was that of a cloud with a silver lining, and sorely 
it was a fitting attire for one who knew how to give brightness 
to the darkest shadows of life. 

As we approached ner, her countenance lighted up with 
pride and pleasure. I saw she was gratified by my appear- 
ance ; that she was not ashamed of her prot^g^. Yet as we 
came nearer, I observed an expression of the most tender 
anxiety, approaching to sadness, come over her brow. How 
proud she was of her son ! She looked upon him with a glance 
that would have been idolatry, had not God said, *^ Thou shalt 
not make unto thyself idols, for I am a jealous Grod." 

She took my hand, and I saw her eye follow the sofl tracery 
of pearl-flowers that enwreathed neck, arms, and brow. She 
knew who had thus adorned me, and her approving smile sanc- 
tioned the gifts. 

" I rejoice to see you look so well, my dear child," she said, 
** I feared you might lose the enjoyment of the evening ; but I 
see no one who has a brighter prospect before them now." 

She introduced me to the friends who surrounded her, and 
wished to give me a seat near her; but Ernest resisted the 
movement, and with a smiling bow passed on. 




SRHE8T LINWOOD. 151 

** I am not disposed to release you quite so soon,'' said he, 
passing out into the piazza. ^ I see very plainly that if I relin- 
quish my position it will not be easy to secure it again. I am 
delighted. I am charmed, Gabriella, to see that you have the 
firmness to resist, as well as the sensibility to feeL I am 
delighted, too, to see you in the only livery youth and innocence 
should wear in a festal scene like this. I abhor the gaudy tin- 
selry which loads the devotees of fashion, indicative of false 
tastes and fidse principles ; but white and pearls remind me of 
every thing pure and holy in nature. In the Bible we read of 
the white robes of angeb and saints. Who ever dreamed of 
dothiug them, in imagination, in dark or party-colored gar- 
ments ? In mythology, the graces, the nymphs, and the muses 
are represented in snowy garments. In spotless white the 
bride is led to the marriage shrine, and in white she is pre- 
pared for the last sublime espousals. Do you know,'' added 
he, suddenly changing the theme, as if conscious he was 
touching upon something too solemn, ^ why I selected the scarlet 
geranium for one of the blossoms of your bouquet ? The first 
time I saw you, it glowed in the darkness of your hair like 
coral in the ocean's heart." 

While he was speaking he broke a sprig from the bouquet 
and j)laced it in a wave of my hair, behind the band of pearls. 

^ Earth and ocean bring you their tribute," said he, and 
^ heaven too," he added ; for as we passed by the pillars, a moon- 
beam glided in and laid its silver touch on my brow. 

^ It is Edith's hand that thus adorned me," I answered, un- 
willing he should believe I bad been consulting my own ambi- 
tious taste. ^ Had I been left to myself, I should have sought 
no ornament but these beautiful flowers, doubly precious for the 
feelings of kindness and compassion that consecrated their mis- 
sion." 

^ Compassion, Gabriella ! I should as soon think of compas- 
sionating the star that shines brightest in the van of night. 
Compassion looks down ; kindness implies an equal ground ; 
admiration looks up with the gaze of the astronomer and the 
worshifi of the devotee." 



152 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

<< You forget I am but a simple, village rustic Such ezsg- 
gerated compliments would suit better the brilliant dames of the 
city. I would rather a thousand times 70a would saji * Gmbii- 
ella, I do feel kindly towards you/ than utter any thing so fonnal, 
and apparently so insincere." 

I was really hurt I thought he was modung my credulity, 
or measuring the height and depth of my girlish Yanity. I did 
not want to be compared to a star, a lone and distant star, not 
to think of him as an astronomer gazing up at me with tele- 
scopic eye. My heart was overflowing with gentle, natural 
thoughts. I wanted human sympathy, not cold and giittering 
compliments. 

^' And do you expect to hear the language of nature here, 
with the buzz of empty tongues and the echo of nnmAJMiing 
laughs in the ear ; where, if a word of sentiment were over- 
heard, it would be bandied from lip to lip with hollow mockery ? 
Come with me into the garden, where the flowers blush in their 
folded leaves, beneath the lovelight of yon gentle moon, where 
the stilly dews whisper sweet thoughts to the listening heart, 
and I will tell you what I have learned in Grandison Place, 
under the elm tree's shade, by the flower girl in the libraiy, 
and from a thousand sources of which you have never dreamed.** 

He took the hand which rested lightly on his arm, and draw- 
ing it closer to his side led the way to the steps of the piazza. 
I had dreamed of a moment like this in the golden reveries of 
romance, and imagined it fi foretaste of heaven, but now I trem- 
bled and hesitated like the fearful fluttering spirit before the 
opening gates of paradise. I dared not yield to the almost irre- 
sistible temptation. No figures were gliding along the aolitaiy 
paths, no steps were brushing away tlic dew-stars that had 
fallen from the sky. We should be alone in the moonlight soli- 
tude ; but the thoughts of Mrs. Linwood and of Edith would 
find us out. 

"No, no I" I cried, shrinking from the gentle force that 
urged me forward ; " do not ask me now. It would be better 
to remain where we are. Do you not think so ? ** 

" Certainly, if you wish it," he said, and his voice bad an 




KBKB8T LIKWOOD. 153 

mltered tone, like that of a sweet instrument suddenly untuned ; 
^ but there is onlj one nowy for those who fear to trust me, 
GabrieUa." 

''To trust youy— oh jou cannot, do not misunderstand me 
thus I" 

^ Why else do you shrink, as if I were leading you to a path 
of thorns instead of one margined with Howers ? " 

^ I fear the observations of the world, since the bitter lesson 
of the morning." 

^ Your fear ! You attach more value to the passing remarks 
of strangers, than the feelings of one who was beginning to 
believe he had found one pure votary of nature and of truth. 
It is welL I have monopolized your attention too long." 

Calmly and coldly he spoke, and the warm light of his eye 
went out like lightning, living the cloud gloom behind it. I 
was about to ask him to lead me back to his mother, in a tone 
as cold and altered as his own, when I saw her approaching us 
with a lady whom I had observed at the chapel ; for her large, 
black eyes seemed magnetizing me, whenever I met their gaze. 
She was tall, beyond the usual height of her sex, finely 
formed, firm and compact as a marble pillar. A brow of bold 
expansion, features of the Roman contour, clearly cut and 
delicately marked ; an expression of recklessness, independence, 
and self-reliance were the most striking characteristics of the 
young lady, whom Mrs. Linwood introduced as Miss Melville, 
the daughter of an early friend of hers. 

^ Miss l^largaret Melville," she repeated, looking at her son, 
who stood, leaning with an air of stately indifference against a 
pillar of the piazza. I had withdrawn my hand from his arm, 
and felt as if the breadth of the frozen ocean was between us. 

*• Does Mr. Ernest Linwood forget his old friend so easily ? " 
she a<ked, in a clear, ringing voice, extending a fair ungloved 
hand. ^ Do you not remember Madge Wildfire, or Meg the 
Dauntless, as the students used to call me ? Or have I become 
80 civilized and polished that you do not recognize me ? " 

^ I did not indeed," said he, receiving the offered hand with 
more grace than eagerness, ^ but it is not so much the fiftdt oi 



154 ERNEST LINWOOB. 

my memory, as the marvelloas change in younelf. I must not 
Bay improvement, as that would imply that there was a time 
when you were susceptible of it," 

<< You may say just what you please, for I like franknen 
and straightforwardness as well as I ever did; better,-* a 
great deal better, for I know its value more. And jouy Ernest, 
I cannot call you any thing else, you are another and yet the 
same. The same stately, statue-like being I used to try in 
vain to teaze and torment. It seems so long since we have met, 
I expected to have seen you quite bent and hoary with age. 
Do tell me something of your transatlantic experience.** 

While she was speaking in that peculiar tone of voice which 
reminded one of a distant clarion, Richard Clyde came to me 
on the other side, and seeing that she wished to engage the 
conversation of Ernest, which sh^ probably thought I had 
engrossed too long, I took the offered arm of Richard and 
returned to the drawing-room. Seeing a table covered with 
engravings, I directed our steps there, that subjects of conver- 
sation might be suggested independent of ourselves. 

^* How exquisite these are I " I exclaimed, taking up the first 
within iny reach and expatiating on its beauties, without really 
comprehending one with my preoccupied and distant thoughts. 
^' These Italian landscapes are always charming.'' 

'^ I believe that is a picture of the Boston Common," said he^ 
smiling at my mistake ; " but surely no Italian landscape can 
boast of sucli magnificent trees and such breadth of verdure. 
It is a whole casket of emeralds set in the granite heart of a 
great city. And see in the centre that pure, sparkling di»> 
mend, sending out such rays of coolness and delight, — I won* 
dor you did not recognize it." 

" I have seen it only in winter, when the trees exhibited 
their wintry dreariness, and little boys were skating on the dia- 
mond surface of that frozen water. It looked very difierent 
then." 

^Mr. Linwood could explain these engravings," said he^ 
drawing forward some which indeed represented Italian rains, 
grand and ivy mantled, where the owl might weU assert her 




EBNX8T LINWOOD. 1^ 

soiitarj domaiii. ^ He has two great advantages, an eye en- 
lightened hj trayel, and a taste fastidious by nature." 

^ I do not admire fiistidiousness," I answered ; ^ I do not like 
to have defects p<Hnted out to me, which my own ignorance does 
not discover. There is more pleasure in imagining beauties 
than in finding out faults." 

*^ Will jou think it a presuming question, a too inquisitive 
one,** he said, holding up an engraving between himself and the 
light, " if I ask jour candid opinion of Mr. lanwood ? Is the 
world right in the character it has given ? Has he all the pecu- 
liarities and &8cinations it ascribes to him ? ** 

He spoke in a careless manner, or rather tried to do so, but 
his eye burned with intense emotion. Had he asked me this 
question a short time previous, conscious blushes would have 
djed my cheeks, for a ^ murderous guilt shows not itself more 
soon," than the feelings I attempt to conceal ; but my sensibility 
bad been wounded, my pride roused, and my heart chilled. I 
had discovered within myself a spirit which, like the ocean 
bark, rises with the rising wave. 

^ If Mr. Linwood had faults," I answered, and I could not 
help smiling at the attempted composure and real perturbation 
of his manner, ^I would not speak of them. Peculiarities 
he may have, for they are inseparable from genius, — fascina- 
tions" — here their remembrance was too strong for my as- 
sumed indifference, and my sacred love of truth compeUed me 
to utter, — ^ fjDiscinations he certainly possesses." 

^ In what do they consist ? " he asked. ^ Beyond an extremely 
gentlemanly exterior, I do not perceive any peculiar claims to 
admiration." 

Hurt as I had been by Ernest's altered manner, I was dis- 
posed to do justice to his merits, and the more Richard seemed 
desirous to depreciate him, the more I was willing to exalt him. 
If he was capable of the meanness of envy, I was resolved to 
punLih him. I did him injustice. He was not envious, but 
jealous ; and it is impossible for jealousy and justice ever to go 
hand in hand. 

^In what do they consist?" I repeated At that moment I 



156 ERNEST LIKWOOD. 

saw him through the window, standing just where I had left 
him, leaning with folded arms against the pUlar, with the mooiH 
light shining gloriously on his brow. Miss Melville stood near 
him, talking with great animation, emphasizing her words with 
quick, decided gesticulation, while he seemed a passive listener. 
I had seen handsomer gentlemen, perhaps, — hat never one 
so perfectlj elegant and refined in appearance. The pale 
transparency of his complexion had the purity and delicacy of 
alabaster without its whiteness, seen by that clear, silvery 
light. 

^^In what do they consist? In powers of conversation as 
rich as they are varied, in versatility of talents, in rare cnlti- 
vation of mind and polish of manner. Let me see. I must 
give you a complete inventory of his accomplishments. He 
reads most charmingly, plays superbly, and sings divinely. 
Would you know his virtues ? He is a most devoted son, a 
paragon of brotliers, and a miracle of a host" 

I believe there is a dash of coquetry in every woman's na- 
ture. There must have been in mine, or I could not have gone 
on, watching the red thermometer in Richard's cheek, rising 
higher and higher, though what I said was truth, unembellished 
by imagination. It was what they who run might retuL I 
did not speak of those more subtle traits which, were invisible 
to the common eye, those characters which, lik»^invisible writ- 
ing, are brought out by a warm and glowing element. 

^^ I am glad to hear you speak so openly in his praise,** said 
Richard, with a brightening countenance ; " even if I deserved 
such a tribute, I should not wish to know that you had paid it 
to me. I would prize more one silent glance, one conscious 
blu.sh, than the most labored eulogium the most eloquent lips 
could utter.*' 

** But I do praise you xory much," I answered ; ** ask Mrs. 
Linwood, and Edith, and Mr. Regulus. Ask Mr. Linwood 
liimself.*' 

*' Never speak of me to him, Gabriella. Let my feelings be 
sacred, if they are lonely. You know your power; use it 
gently, exert it kindly." 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 157 

The smile of assumed gaiety faded from my lips, as his 
graye, earnest^ sincere accents went down into my soul. Could 
I trifle even for a moment with an affection so true and con- 
stant? 

Oh, wajTward and unappreciating heart ! Why could I not 
return this love, which might have made me so happy ? Why 
was there no spirit-echo to his voice ; no quickened pulsations 
at the sound of his coming footsteps ? 

** This is no place, Richard, to talk of ourselves, or I would 
try to convince you that I am incapable of speaking lightly of 
your feelings, or betraying them to a human being, even to 
Mrs. Linwood ; but let us speak of something else now. Do 
yon not feel very happy that you are free, — no more a slave 
to hours or rules ; free to come and go, when and where you 
please, with the whole earth to roam in, 

« Heart within and Qod overhead ? " 

** No ! I am sad. Afler being at anchor so long, to be sud- 
denly set drifting, to be the sport of the winds of destiny, the 
cable chain of habit and association broken, one feels dizzy 
and bewildered. I never knew till now how stronc: the class- 
mate bond of union is, how sacred the brotherhood, how bind- 
ing the tie. We, who have been treading the same path for 
four long years, must now diverge, east, west, north, and south, 
the great cardinal points of life. In all human probability we 
shall never all meet again, till the mysterious problem of our 
destiny is solved." 

He paused, impressed by the solemnity of this idea, then 
added, in his natural, animated manner, 

^ There is one hope, Gabriella, to which I have looked for- 
ward as the sheet-anchor of my soul ; if that fails me, I do not 
care wimt becomes of me. Sometimes it has burned so brisrht- 
ly, it has been my morning and evening star, my rising, but unset- 
ting sun. To-night the star is dim. Clouds of doubt and appre- 
hension gather over it Gabriella, — I cannot live in this sus- 
pense, and yet I could not bear the confirmation of my fears. 
Better to doubt than to despair." 

14 



158 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

<' Richard, why will you persist in talking of what cannot be 
explained here ? Shall we not meet hereafter, and have abun- 
dant opportunities for conversation, free and uninterrupted? 
Ix>ok around, and see how differently other people are convers- 
ing. How lightly and carelessly their words come and go, 
mingled with merry laughter ! Edith is at the piano. Let lu 
go where we can listen, we cannot do it here." 

'* 1 am very sellish ! " said he,- yielding to my suggestion. 
'' I have promised my classmates to introduce them to you. I 
see some of them bending reproachful glances this way. I must 
redeem my character, so as not to incur disgrace in the parting 
hour." 

Then followed introductions pressing on each other, till I was 
weary of hearing my own name. Miss Lynn. I never did like 
to be called Miss. Still it was an unspeakable relief to me, to be 
relciiscd from the necessity of repressing the feelings of others, 
and guarding my own. It was a relief to hear those unmean- 
ing sayings which are the current coin of society, and to utter 
without effort the first light thought that came floating on the 
surface. The rest of the evening I was surrounded by strangers, 
and the most exacting vanity might have been satisfied with 
the incense I received. I knew that the protection of Mrs. 
Lin wood gave a prestige to me that would not otherwise have 
been mine, but I could not help perceiving that Edith, the 
heiress, all lovely as she was, was not half as much courted 
and admired as the daughter of the outcast. I was too joung, 
too much of a novice, not to be pleased with the attention I at- 
tracted ; but when the heart is awakened, vanity has but little 
power. It is a cold, vapory conceit, that vanishes before the 
inner warmth and lights which, like the sun in the firmament, 
"shineth brighter and brighter to the perfect day." 

After Edith retired from the instrument there was a buzz, 
and a sensation, and Miss Melville, or Meg the Dauntless, as I 
could not lielp mentally calling her, was escorted to the piano 
by Ernest. What a contrast she presented to the soft, retiring, 
ethereal Edith, whose every motion suggested the idea of mu- 
sic ! Though her arm was linked in that of Ernest, she walked 




EltKEST LINWOOD. 159 

iDdependentlj of him, dashing through the company with a 
brave, military air, and taking a seat as if a flourish of trum- 
pets had heralded her approach. At first I was startled by the 
ioud crash of the keys, as she threw her hands upon them with 
all her force, laughing at the wild dissonance of the sound ; but 
as she continued, harmony, if not sweetness, rose out of the 
chaos. She evidently understood the science of music, and en- 
joyed it too. She did not sing, and while she was playing the 
most brilliant polkas, waltzes, and variations with the most won- 
derful execution, she talked and laughed with those around the 
instrument, or looked round the apartment, and nodded to this 
one and that, her great black eyes flashing like chain lightning. 
Her playing seemed to have a magical effect No one could 
keep their feet still. Even the dignified president patted his, 
marking the measure of her prancing fingers. I could have 
danced wildly myself, for I never heard any thing so inspiring 
to the animal spirits as those wizard strains. Every counte- 
nance was lighted with animation, save one, and that was 
Ernest's. He stood immovable, pale, cold, and self-involved, 
like a being from another sphere. I remembered how differ- 
ently he looked when he wooed me to the garden's moonlight 
walk^, and how the warm and gentle thoughts that then beamed 
in his eyes seemed frozen and dead, and I wondered if they were 
extinguished forever. 

^ Uow stupid ! " exclaimed Miss Melville, suddenly stopping, 
and turning round on the pivot of the music stool till she com- 
manded a full view of the drawing-room. *'I thought you 
would all be dancing by this time. There is no use in playing 
to such inanimate mortals. And you," said she, suddenly turn- 
ing to Ernest, ^^ you remind me of the prince, the enchanted 
prince in the Arabian Nights only he was half marble, you 
are a whole statue. You do not like music I pity you." 

^ I have my own peculiar tastes,** he answered quietly ; 
^ some nerves are more delicately strung than others." 

^ Do you imply that my playing is too loud for delicate 
nerves ? Why, that is nothing to what I can do. That is my com- 
pany music. When I am at home I give full scope to my powers.** 



IGO EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

^< We are perfectly satisfied with the specimen we have heard,* 
said he, smiling ; how could he help it ? and every one laughed, 
none more heartily than the gay musician herself. I never 
heard such a laugh before, so merry, so contagious; such a 
rich, round, ringing laugh ; dying away one moment, then burst- 
ing out SLffSLin in such a chorus ! 

All at once she fixed her eyes on me, and starting up, came 
directly to me, planting her tall, finely formed, firm-set figure in 
the midst of the group around me. 

*^ Come, you must play and sing too. I have no doubt your 
style will suit Mr. Linwood's delicate nerves." 

" I never play," I answered. 

" Nor sing ? " 

« Only at home." 

" You have a face of music, I am sure." 

^' Thank you. I have a heart to appreciate it ; that is a great 
gift." 

^^ But why do n't you sing and play ? How do yon expect to 
pass current in society, without being able to hang on the in- 
strument as I do, or creep over it with mouselike fingers as 
most young ladies do ? I suppose you are very learned — very 
accomplished ? How many languages do you speak ? ** 

" Only two at present," I answered, excessively amused by 
her eccentricity, and falling into her vein with a facility that 
quite surprised myself. " I generally find the English tongue 
sulficicnt to express my ideas." 

** I suppose one of the two is German. You will be consid- 
ered a mere nobody here, if you do not understand Grerman. 
It is the fashion ; the paroxysm ; German literature, Grerman 
taste, and German transcendentalism; I have tried them all, 
but they will not do for me. I must have sunshine and open 
air. I must see where I am going, and understand what I am 
doing. 1 abhor mysticism, as I do deceit. Are you frank, Miss 
Gabriella? You have such a pretty name, I shall take the 
liberty of using it. Lynn is too short ; it sounds like an abbre- 
viation of Linwood." 

<^ If you mean by frankness, a disposition to tell all I think 




XBNKST LIHWOOD. 161 

and fed, I am not fTank,** I answeredy without noticing her hist 
remark, which created a smile in others. 

" Ton do not like to hear people express off their thoughts, 
good, had, or indifferent ? ** 

' Indeed I do not I like to have them winnowed before 
they are ottered." 

*^ Then you will not like me, and I am sorrjr fixr it. I ^ve 
taken an amadng fiincy to yon. Never mind ; I shall take yon 
by storm when we get to Grandison Place. Do yon know I 
am going home with you ? Are you not delighted ? ** 

She bunt into one of her great, rich laughs, at the sight of 
my dismayed countenance. I reaUy felt annihilated at the 
thought. There was something so OYcrpowering^ so redundant 
about her, I expected to be weighed down, — overshadowed. 
She going to Grandison Phu» I Alas, what a transformation 
there would be ! Adieu to the quiet walks, the evening read- 
ings, the morning flower gatherings ; adieu to sentiment and 
tranquillity, to poetry and romance. Why had Mrs. Linwood 
invited so strange a guest ? Perhaps she was self-invited. 

^ I tell you what I am going for,** she said, bending her face 
to mine and speaking in a whisper that sounded like a whistle 
in my ear; ^I am going to animate that man of stone. Why 
have not you done it, juxtaposited as you are ? You do not 
make use of the fire-arms with which nature has supplied you. 
If I had such a pair of eyes, I would slay like David my tens 
of thousands every day.** 

**The difficulty would be in finding victims," I answered. 
^ The inhabitants of the town where I reside do not number 
more than two or three thoasand." 

^ Oh ! I would make it populous. I would draw worship- 
pers from the four points of the earth, — and yet it would be 
a greater triumph to subdue one proud, hitherto impregnable 
heart." 

Her eyes flashed like gunpowder as she uttered this, $oUo 
roee it is true, but still loud enough to be heard half across the 
room. 

^Goodby," she suddenly exdaimed, ^they are beckoning 



1G2 ERKE8T LINWOOD. 

me ; I must go ; try to like me, precious creature ; I shall be 
quite miserable if you do not." 

Then passing her arm round me, an arm firm, polished, and 
white as ivory, she gave me a loud, emphatic kiss, laughed, and 
lefl me almost as much confused as if one of the other sex had 
taken the same liberty. 

^' Is she," thought I, ^ a young man in disguise ? ** 




CHAPTER XXII. 

What am I writing? 

Somedmes I throw down the pen, saying to myself, ^it is aU 
ibUy, all Teibiage. There is a history within worth perns* 
ing, but I cannot bring it forth to light I torn oifpr page after 
page with the fingers of thought. I see duuraelers glowing or 
darkened with passion, — lines alternately bright and shadowy, 
distinct and obscure, and it seems an easy thing to make a 
transcript of these for the outward world.** 

Easy ! it requires the recording angel's pen to register the 
history of the human heart. ^ The thoughts that breathe, the 
thoughts that bum," how can they be expressed ? The mere 
act of clothing them in words makes them grow odd and 
dull. The molten gold, the fused iron hardens and chills in the 
forming mould. 

Easy! '^Oh yes," the critic says, ^ it is an easy thing to 
write ; only follow nature, and you cannot err." But nature is 
as broad as the uniTcrse, as high as the heavens, and as deep 
as the seas. It is but a small portion we can condense even on 
hundreds Oj^; pages of foolsci^ paper. If that portion be of 
love, the cold philosopher turns away in disdain and talks of 
romantic maids and moonstruck boys, as if the subject were fit 
alone for them. And yet love is the great motive principle of 
nature, the burning sun of the social system. Blot it out, and 
evr y other feeling and passion would sink in the darkness of 
eternal night. Byron's awful dream woald be realised,— 
darkness would indeed be the universe. They who praise a 
writer for omitting love from the page which purports to be a 
reeord of life, would praise God fer erealing a worid, over 



1G4 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

whose sunless realms no warmth or light was diffused, (if sudi 
a creation were possible,) — a world without flowers or music, 
without hope or joy. 

But as the sun is only an emanation from the first great 
fountain of light and glory, so love is but an effluence from the 
eternal source of love divine. 

" Bright effluence of bright essence increate." And woe to 
her, who, forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in the 
earthly stream, without seeking the living spring whence it 
flows ; who worships the fire-ray that falls upon the altar, with- 
out giving glory to him from whom it descended. The stream 
will become a stagnant pool, exhaling pestilence and death; 
the fire-ray will kindle a devouring fiame, destroying the altar, 
with the gifl and the heart a burning iush, that will blaze for- 
ever without consuming. 

Whither am I wandering ? 

Imagine me now, in a very dificrent scene to the president's 
illuminated drawing-room. Instead of the wild buzzing of 
mingling voices, I hear the mournful sighing of the breeze 
through the weeping grave trees ; and ever and anon there 
conies a sof^, stealing sound through the long, swaying grass, 
like the tread of invisible feet I am alone with my mother's 
8]nrit. The manuscript, that is to reveal the mystery of my 
]>nrentage, is in my hand. The hour is come, when without 
violating the commands of the dead, I may claim it as my own, 
uiul remove the hermetic seal which death has stamped. Where 
vUv could I read it ? My own room, once so serenely quiet, 
was no longer a sanctuary, — for Margaret Melville dashed 
tlin)ugh the house, swinging open the doors as abruptly as a 
March wind, and her laugh filled every nook and comer of 
the capacious mansion. How could I unseal the sacred history 
of my mother*s sorrows within the sound of that loud, echoing 
ha, ha? 

I could not ; so I stole away to a spot, where sacred silence 
has set up its everlasting throne. The sun had not yet gone 
down, but the shadows of the willows lengthened on the grass. 
I Silt at the foot of the grave leaning against a marble slab, and 




KBNB8T LINWOOD. 165 

imseftkd, with cold and trembling hands, my mother's hearty for 
so that manuscript seemed to me. 

At first I could not see the lines, for my tears rained down so 
fiut they threatened to obliterate the delicate characters ; but 
after repeated efforts I acquired composure enough to read the 
following brief and thrilling history. It was the opening of the 
sixth seal of my life. The stars of hope fell, as a fig-tree 
casteth her untimely figs when she is shaken by a mighty wind, 
and the heaven of my happiness departed as a scroll when it is 
rolled together, and the mountains and islands of human tatst 
were moved out of their places. ^ 



MY MOTHER'S HISTORY. 

** Gkibriella, before your eyes shall rest on these pages, mine 
will be closed in the slumbers of death. Let not your heart be 
troubled, my only beloved, at the record of wrongs which no 
longer corrode ; of sorrows which are all past away. * In my 
Father's house are many mansions,' and one of them is prepared 
for me. It is my Saviour's promise, and I believe it as firmly 
as if I saw the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, where 
that heavenly mansion is built. 

** Weep not, then, my child, my orphan darling, over a past 
which cannot be recalled; let not its shadow rest too darkly 
upon you, — if there is joy in the present, be grateful ; if there 
is hope in the future, rejoice. 

** You have often asked me to tell you where I lived when I 
was a little child ; whether my home was a gray cottage like 
ours, in the woods ; and whether I had a mother whom I loved 
as dearly as you loved me. I have told you that my first feeble 
life-wail mingled with her dying groan, and you wondered how 
one could live without a mother's love. 

**I was bom in that rugged fortress, whose embattled walls are 
washed by the majestic Bay of Chesapeake. My father held 
a captain's conunission in the army, and was stationed for many 
years at this magnificent, insulated bulwark. My father, at the 



166 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

time of my mother's death, was a young and gallant officer, and 
I was his only child. It is not strange that he should manj 
again ; for the grief of man seldom surrives the allotted period 
of mourning, and it was natural that he should select a gay and 
brilliant woman, for the second choice is generally a striking 
contrast to the first. My mother, I am told, was one of those 
gentle, dove-like, pensive beings, who nestled in her husband's 
heart, and knew no world beyond. My step-mother loved the 
world and its pleasures better tlian husband, children, and home. 
She had children of her own, who were more the objects of her 
pride than her love. Every day, they were dressed for exhibi- 
tion, petted and caressed, and then sent back to the nursery, 
where they could not interfere with the pleasures of their fash- 
ionable mamma. Could I expect those tender cares which the 
yearning heart of childhood craves, as its daily sustenance? 
She was not harsh or despotic, but careless and indifierenL 
She did not care for me ; and provided I kept out of her way, 
she was willing I should amuse myself in the best manner I 
pleased. My father was kind and caressing, when he had 
leisure to indulge his parental sensibilities ; but he could not 
S}'Tnpathize in my childish joys and sorrows, for I dared not 
confide them to him. He was a man, and, moreover, there was 
something in the gilded pomp of his martial dress, that inspired 
too much awe for childish familiarity. I used to gaze at him, 
when he appeared on military parade, as if he were one of the 
denii-gods of the ancient world, lie had an erect and warlike 
bearing, a proud, firm step, and his gold epaulette with its glit- 
tering tassels Hashing in the sunbeams, his crimson sash con- 
trasting so splendidly with the military blue, his shining sword 
and waving plume, — all impressed me with a grandeur that 
was overpowering. It dazzled my eye, but did not warm my 
young heart. 

" As I grew older, I exhibited a remarkable love of reading, 
and as no one took the trouble to direct my tastes, I seized 
every book which came within my reach and devoured it, with 
the avidity of a hungry and unoccupied mind. My father was 
a gentleman of pure and elegant taste, and had he dreamed that 




KBHB8T LINWOOD. 107 

I was exposed, without goardiaiishipy todangeroos inflaeneeSy lie 
would haTe shielded and warned me. But he believed the care 
of diildien under twelve years of age devolved on their mother, 
and he was always engrossed with the duties of a profession 
which he passionately loved, or the society of his brother oflBcers, 
usually so fascinating and conviviaL 

^ I used to take my book, which was genendly scHne wild, 
impassioned romance, and wandering to the ramparts, seat my- 
self by the shining pyramids of cannon-balls ; and while the 
Uue waves of the Chesapeake rolled in mormoring music by, 
or, lashed by the ocean wind, heaved in foaming billows, roarii^ 
against the walls, I yielded myself to the wizard spell of genius 
and passion. The officers as they passed would try to break 
the enchantment by gay and sportive words, but all in vain. 
I have sat there, drenched by the salt sea-spray, and knew it 
not. I was caUed the little bookworm, the prodigy, the dreams 
yiH ft name you have inherited, my darling Grabriella ; and my 
father seemed proud of the reputation I had established. But 
while my imagination was pretematurally developed, my heart 
was slumbering, and my soul unconscious of life's great aim. 

^ Thus unguarded by precept, ungoided by example, I was 
sent from home to a boarding-school, where I acquired the usual 
education and accomplishments obtained at fashionable female 
seminaries. During my absence from home, my two step-sisters, 
who were thought too young to accompany me, and my infant 
step-brother, died in the space of one week, smitten by that 
destroying angel of childhood, the scarlet fever. 

^ I had been at school two years when I made my first visit 
home. My step-mother was then in the weeds of mourning, 
and of course excluded herself in a measure from gay society ; 
but 1 marvelled that sorrow had not impaired the bloom of her 
cheek, or quenched the sparkle of her cold, bright eye. Her 
heart was not buried in the grave of her children, — it belonged 
to the world, to which she panted to return. 

^ But my father mourned. There was a shadow on his man- 
ly brow, which I had never seen before. I was, now, his only 
diiUy the representative of his once betoved Rosalie, and the 



168 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

pure, fond love of his early years revived again in me. I look 
back upon those two months, when I basked in the sunshine 
of parental tenderness for the first, the only time, as a portion 
of my life most dear and holy. I sighed when I thought of 
the years when we had been comparatively so far apart, and 
my heart grew to his with tender adhesiveness and growing 
love. The affections, which my worldly step-mother had chilled 
and repressed, and which the death of his other children had 
blighted, were now all mine, renovated and warmed. 

" Oh, Gabriella ! very precious is a father's love. It is an 
emblem of the love of Grod for the dependent beings he has 
created ; so kind, so protecting, so strong, and yet so tender ! 
Would to God, my poor, defrauded child, you could have 
known what this God-resembling love is, — but your orphanage 
has been the most sad, the most dreary, — the most unhallowed. 
Almighty Father of the universe, have mercy on my child! 
Protect and bless her when this wasting, broken heart no longer 
beats ; when the frail shield of a mother's love is taken from 
her, and she is left alone — alone — alone. Oh ! my Grod, 
have pity — have pity 1 Forsake her not I " 

The paper was blistered with the tears of the writer. I 
dropped it on the grave, unable to go on. I cast myself on the 
grass-covered mould, and pressed it to my bosom, as if there 
was vitality in the cold clods. 

" Oh, my mother ! " I exclaimed, and strange and dreary 
sounded my voice in that breathing stillness. " Has Grod heard 
thy prayers ? Will he hear the cries of the fatherless ? Will 
he have pity on my forsaken youth ? " 

I would have given worlds to have realized that this mighty 
Go<l was near ; that he indeed cared with a father's love for the 
orphan mourner, committed in faith to his all-embracing arms. 
But I Htill worshipped him as far-off, enthroned on high, in the 
heaven of heavens, which cannot contain the full glory of his 
presence. I saw him on the burning mountain, in the midst of 
thunder and lightning and smoke, — a God of consuming fire, 
before whose breath earthly joys and hopes withered and dried| 
like blossoms cast into the furnace. 




XBKBST LINWOOD. 169 

But did not God onoe hide his finoe of love from his own 
hegoiten Son ? And shaU not the eM, doi^ lama sahaehihani 
of the forsaken heart sometimes aseend amid the woes -and 
trials and wrongs of life, from the. great mountain of homan 
misery, the smdking Sinai, whose dooded summit quakes with 
the footsteps of Deitj? 

lo 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

I AGAIN resumed the manuscript, trembling for the revela- 
tions which it might make. 

" Never again," wrote my mother, " did I behold my noble, 
gallant father. His death was sudden, as if shot down in the 
battle field, without one warning weakness or pain. In the 
green summer of his days he fell, and long did my heart vibrate 
from the shock. How desolate to me was the home to which I 
returned ! The household fire was indeed extinguished. The 
household god laid low. I saw at one glance that in my breast 
alone his memory was enshrined ; that there alone was sacred 
incense burning. Mrs. Lynn, (I will speak of her by her name 
hereafter,) though only one year had passed since his death, 
was assuming those light, coquettish airs which accord as little 
with the robes of widowhood as the hues of the rainbow or the 
garlands of spring. 

" I saw with exquisite pain and shame, that she looked upon 
me as a rival of her maturer charms, and gladly yielded to my 
wish for retirement. She always spoke of me as * the child,* 
the * little bookworm/ impressing upon the minds of all the 
idea of my extreme juvenility. I was young; but I had 
arrived to years of womanhood, and my stature equalled heri^. 

" I will pass on to the scene which decided my destiny. I do 
not wish to swell the volume of my life. Let it be brief as it 
is sad. 

" Very near the fortress is another rocky bulwark, rising out 
of the waves in stern and rugged majesty, known by the pecu- 
liar name of the Rip-Uaps. It is the work of man, who paved 
the ocean bed with rocks, and conceived the design of a loffy 

(170) 




BBNB8T LIKWOOD. 171 

ca5tle, from whose battlements the star-spanned banner should 
waTe, and whose massy turrets should perpetuate the honors 
of Carolina's most gifted son. The design was grand, but has 
never been completed* It has, however, finished apartmento, 
which form a kind of summer hotel, where many statesmen often 
resort, that they may lay down, for a while, the burden of care, 
and breathe an atmosphere pore from political corruption, and 
cool from party zeal and strife. 

** At the time of which I speak the chief magistrate of the 
nation sought refuge there for a shOTt while, frcmi the oppressive 
responsibilities of ^his exalted station, and regardless of, his wish 
for retirement, or rather irresistibly impelled to paj^onors to 
one whose brows were wreathed with the soldier's laonl as well 
as the statesman's crown, every one sought his trocky and 
wave-washed retreat. 

^ Mrs. Lynn joined a party of ladiet^ who, escorted by officers, 
went over in barges to be introduced to the gallant veteran. 
The martial spirit of my father throbbed high in my bosom, and 
I longed to behold one, whom he would have delighted to 
honor. Mrs. Lynn did not urge me, but there were others who 
supplied her deficiency, and convinced me I was not OMsidered 
an intruder. Among the gentlemen who composed our party 
was a stranger, by the name of St James, to whom Mrs. Lynn 
paid the most exclusive attention. She was still in the^Hamn 
of womanhood, and though far from being beautiful, was showy 
and attractive. All the embellishments of dress were called 
into requisition to enhance the charms of nature, and to produce 
the illusion of youth. She always sought the admiration of 
strangers, and Mr. St. James was sufficiently distinguished in 
appearance to render him worthy of her fascinations. I merely 
noticed that he had a fine person, a graceful air, and a musical 
voice ; then casUng my eyes on the sea^^gpeen waters, over which 
our light barge was bounding, I did not lift them again till we 
were near the dark gray rocks of the Rip-Raps, and I beheld 
on the brink of the stone steps we were to ascend, a tall and 
stately form, whose foam-white lodui were rustling in the breese 
of ooeao. There he stood, like the statue of liberty, thvooed 



172 EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

on a granite cliJQP, with waves rolling below and sunbeams res^ 
ing on his brow. 

'^ As we stepped from the barge and ascended the ragged steps, 
the chieftain bent his warlike figure and drew us to the platform 
with all the grace and gallantry of youth. As I was the young- 
est of the party, he received me with the most endearing fiimil- 
iarity. I almost thought he was going to kiss me, so close he 
brought his bronzed cheek to mine. 

^' ' God bless you, my child ! ' said he, taking both hands in 
his and looking earnestly in my face. * I knew your fi&ther welL 
He was a gallant officer, — a noble, honest man. Peace to his 
ashes ! The soldier fills an honored grave.' 

'< This tribute to my father's memory filled my eyes with tears, 
while my cheek glowed with gratified pride. I was proud that 
I was a soldier's daughter, proud to hear his praise from the 
lips of valor and of rank. 

^' I had brought a beautiful bouquet of flowers as a girlish 
offering to the veteran. I had been thinking of something 
pretty and poetical to say when I presented it, but the words 
(lied on my lips, and I extended it in silence with the trembling 
hand of diffidence. 

'' ' Now,' said he, with a benignant smile, turning the flowers 
round and round, as if admiring them all, ' I am the envy of 
every young man present They would all exchange the lau- 
rels of the soldier for the blossoms gathered by the hand of 
beauty.' 

" ' Let me have the privilege of holding them for you, sir, 
wliile we remain,' said Mr. St. James, with a courtly grace 
consistent with the name he bore, and they were submitted with 
equal courtesy to his keeping. 

'• These arc trifles to relate, my Gabriella, but they had an in- 
llu(Mice on my life and yours. They laid the foundation of a 
dislike and jealousy in the mind of my step-mother, that em- 
bittered all our future intercourse. * The child ' was distin- 
guislied, not only by the hero who was the lion of the scene, but 
by the stranger she was resolved to charm, and her usually bright 
countenance was clouded with malice and discontent Forget- 




KBNEST LINWOOD. 178 

f al of politeness, she hurried away those who came in the same 
barge with herself, anxious to see me unmured once more in the 
walls of the Fort. 

" Afier our distinguished host had bidden fiu:ewell to his elder 
guests, whom he accompanied to the steps, he turned to me with 
a look so benign and affectionate I never shall forget it, and 
stooping; kissed mj forehead. 

**> « As jour fiuher's friend, and your country's fiuher, dear 
ehild, permit me ' — he said, then giving my hand to St. James, 
who was waiting to assist me into the barge, bowed a dignified 
adieu. 

^ * You do indeed make us envy you, sir,' cried St James, as 
he stood with uncovered head in the centre of the boat, while it 
glided from the waUs, and holding up the bouquet which he had 
had the boldness to retain. 

^ The statesman smiled and shook his snow-crowned head, and 
there he stood, long afler we receded from the rocks, his tall, 
erect figure defined on the dark blue sky. 

^ I never saw that noble form again. The brave old soldier 

died a soldier of the Cross, and fills a Christian's grave. He 

slec|»s in death, embosomed in the quiet shades he loved best 

in life. 

' And Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To deck the tarf that wraps his day/ 

**■ I did not tliink of paying this tribute to his memory ; but 
that scene was so indelibly stamped on my mind, I could not 
help delineating it. It was then and there I first beheld your 
father. 

^ The barge was rowed by eight soldiers, dressed in uniform, 
and their oars all dippe<l^and fiaifhcd with simultaneous motion. 
Nothing could bo more harmoniously beautiful; but the rest- 
less spirit of Mrs. Lynn suggested a change. 

^ *' Raise the sail,' she exclaimed, ^ this is too monotonous. I 
prefer it a thousand times to rowing.' 

***• I beg, I entreat, madam,' cried I, unable to repress my ap* 
prehensions, 'do not have it done now. I am very foolish, 
but I cannot help it, indeed I cannot.* 

15 • 



174 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" I was not accustomed to the water as she was, having been 

absent so long ; and even when a child, I had an unconqaerabk 

dread of sailing. She knew this, and it prompted her su^es- 

tion. 

<' < Affectation of fear may be pardoned in a child, Bosalie, 

said she, with a sarcastic smile, ' but it is nevertheless very un- 
becoming.' 

<' ' Do not indulge one apprehension,' exclaimed St. James, 
stepping over one of the seats and sitting down at mj side. ' I 
am one of the best sailors in the world. Non timui — C€e$€atm 
veJds. Give the sails to the winds, bojs. I will make them my 
vassals.' 

^' His eyes beamed with conscious power, as the white sheet 
unrolled and swelled gracefully in the breeze. It was strange, 
all my fears were gone, and I felt as serene a confidence as if 
his vaunting words were true. The strong will, the magic 
smile were acting on me like a spell, and I yielded unresist- 
ingly to their influence. 

"]Mrs. Lynn would gladly have revoked her commands, 
since they had called forth such an expression of interest for 
me ; but the boat swept on with triumphant speed, and even I 
participated in the exhilaration of its motion. Just before we 
reached the shore, Mrs. Lynn bent forward and took the flowers 
from the hand of St. James before he was aware of her de- 
sign. 

" ^ Is that mignonette which is so oppressively fragrant ? ' 
she asked, lifting the bouquet to her nose. - She was seated near 
the side of the barge, and her head was gracefully inclined. 
Whether from accident or design, I think it was the latter, the 
flowers dropped into the river. 

" In the flashing of an eye- glance, St. James leaped over the 
boat side, seized the flowers, held them up in triumph over his 
head, and swam to the shore. He stood there with dripping 
garments and smiling lips as we landed, while the paleness of 
terror still blanched my face, and its agitation palpitated in my 
heart. 

'' ' I must dony myself the pleasure of escorting you to the 




BBNX8T LINWOOD. 175 

Ihreslu^' said he, glancing at me, while he shook the hrine- 
drops from his arms. His head had not been submerged. He 
bad held that royally above the waves. ' But,' added he, with 
graceful gallantry, 'I have rescued a trophy which I had 
silently vowed to guard with my life; — a treasure doubly 
consecrated by the touch of valor and the hand of beauty.' 

^ ' WeU,' exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, as soon as we were at home, 
tossing her bonnet disdainfully on the sofa, 'if I ever was 
disgusted with boldness and affectation I have been to-day. 
But one thing let me tell you, Miss Rosalie, if you cannot learn 
more propriety of manners, if you make such sickening efforts 
to attract the attention of strangers, I will never allow you to 
go in public, at least in company with me.' 

^ I was perfectly thunderstruck. She had never given such 
an exhibition of temper before. I had always thought her 
cold and selfish, but she seemed to have a careless good-nature, 
which did not prepare me for this ebullition of passion. I did 
not reflect that this was the first time I had clashed with her 
interests, — that inordinate vanity is the parent of envy, hatred, 
and all uncharitableness. 

^ I did not attempt to reply, but hastily turned to leave the 
room. She had been my father's wife, and the sacredness of 
ki$ name shielded her from disrespect. 

'* *• Stop, I^Iiss,' she cried, ' and hear what I have to say. If 
Mr. St. James calls this evening, you are not to make your ap-r 
pearance. He was only making sport of your childial^ess 
to-day, and cares no more for you than the sands of the sea- 
shore. He is no company for you, I assuro you. He is a gen- 
tleman of the world, and has no taste for the bread and butter 
misses just let loose from a boarding-schooL Do you hear 
me?' 

'^ ' I do, madxun.' 

" ' Do you mean to obey ? ' 

^ ' I do, madam.' 

^ I will not attempt to describe my feelings that night as I 
aat alone in my room, and heard the voice of St. James ming- 
ling with my step-mother's, which was modulated to its sweet- 



176 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

est, most seductive tone. The dcsolateness of my future life 
spread out before me. A home without love ! Oh, what dreari- 
ness ! Oh, what iciness I Had mj father lived, how different 
it would liave been. I thought of the happj vacation, when 
he opened his warm heart and took me in, and then I wept to 
think how cold the world seemed since he had lefl it. 

'< It was a midsummer's night, and all the windows were open 
to admit the sea-bom breeze. They were open, but bars of 
gauze wire were put up at the windows and doors to exclude 
the mosquitos. A very small balcony opened out of my 
room, where I usually sat listening to the inspiring strains of the 
band, that, marching on the ramparts, sent their rich, thrilling 
notes in rolling echoes over the moonlight waves. 

^ It was playing now, that martial band, and the bay was one 
sheet of burning silver. I had never seen it look so resplen- 
dcntly beautiful, and I could not help thinking that beneath that 
gently rippling glory, there was peace for the sad and perse- 
cuted heart. As I sat there leaning on the railing, gazing into 
the shining depths of ocean, St James passed. It was very 
early in the evening. Why had he left so soon ? He started, 
paused, turned, and approached the balcony. 

" ' Why are you so cruel as to refuse to see me, after showing 
such knightly devotion to your cause?' he asked, leaning on 
tlie side of the balcony and looking earnestly in my face, on 
whieli the tear-drops were still glittering. 

*' * I have not refused,' I answered hastily, * but do not wait 
to talk with me now. Mrs. Lynn would be much displeased ; 
she would consider it very improper. I pray you not to think 
ine rudo, but indeed I must retire.' 

" I rose in an agony of terror, lest my step-mother should hear 
his voice, and wreak her wrath on me. 

" * Fear not,' he cried, catching my hand and detaining me. 
* She is engaged with company, who will not hasten away as I 
have done. I will not stay long, nor utter one sylkble that is 
not in harmony with the holy tranquillity of the hour. I am a 
stranger in name, but is there not something that tells you I 
was born to be your friend ? I know there is, — I see it in 




BRNE8T LINWOOD. 177 

your ingenooiiSy oonfidiog eje. Only answer me one qaestioD,— - 
Was it joar awn wiUy or the will of another that governed 
your actions to-night ? ' 

^ * The will of another/ 1 answered. * Let that be a snffi- 
eient reason for urging jour departure. If I am forbidden to 
see jou in the parlor, I shall certainly be upbraided for speak- 
ing with you here.' 

^ It was very imprudent in me to speak so freely of my step- 
mother's conduct. No questions of his should have drawn 
from me such an asserti<m. But I was so young and inexpe- 
rienced, and I had been goaded almost to madness by her 
stinging rebukes. It was natural that I should wish to vindi- 
cate myself from the charge of rudeness her misrepresentations 
would bring against me. 

^ 'I find you in sadness and tears,' said he, in a low, gentle 
tone ; so low it scarcely rose above the murmuring waves. 
'They should not be the compani<ms of beauty and youth. 
Let me be your friend, — let me teach you how to banish 
them.' 

^ * No, no,' I cried, frightened at my own boldness in continu- 
ing the conversation so long. * You are not my friend, or you 
would not expose me to censure. Indeed you are not.' 

'^ ' I am gone ; but tell me one thing, — you are not a pris- 
oner?' 

** * O no ; heaven forbid.' 

^ *• You walk on the ramparts.' 

** • Sometimes.' 

** ' Adieu, — we shall meet again.' 

** He was gone, and sweetly lingered in my ear the echo of his 
gently persuasive voice. He had vanished like the bark that 
had just glid^ along the waters, and like that had left a wake 
of brightness behind. 

** I could not sleep. Excitement kept me wakeful and restless. 
I heard the measured tread of the sentinel walking his 
* lonely round,' and it did not sound louder than the beating of 
my own heart. Hark ! a soft, breezy sound steals up just be- 
neath my window. It is the vibration of the guitar, -— a deep- 



178 EUNEST LINWOOD. 

toned, melodious voice accompanies it. It is the voice of St 
James. He sings, and the strains fall upon the stilly night, soft 
as the silver dew. 

" Gabriella, I told you with my dying lips never to unseal this 
manuscript till you were awakened to woman's destiny, — ioct. 
If you do not sympathize with my emotions, lay it down, my 
child, the hour is not yet come. If you have never heard a 
voice, whose faintest tones sink into the lowest depths of your 
soul, — if you have never met a glance, whose lightning rays 
penetrate to the innermost recesses of the heart, reseal these 
pages. The feelings with which you cannot sympathize will 
seem weakness and folly, and a daughter must not scorn a 
mother's bosom record. 

** Remember how lonely, how unfriended I was. The only eye 
that had beamed on me with love was closed in death, the only 
living person on whom I had any claims was cruel and unkind. 
Blame me not that I listened to a stranger's accents, that I re- 
ceived his image into my heart, that I enthroned it there, and 
paid homage to the kingly guest. 

" It is in vain to linger thus. I met him again and again. I 
learned to measure time and space by one line — where he teaSj 
and where he was 7iot. 1 learned to bear harshness, jeering, 
and wrong, because a door of escape was opened, and the roses 
of paradise seemed blushing beyond. I suffered him to be my 
friend — lover — husband." 

I dropped the manuscript that I might clasp my hands in an 
ecstasy of gratitude — 

" My God, — I thank thee ! " I exclauned, sinking on my 
knees, and repeating the emphatic words: ^^ friend — lover — 
husband'* " God of my mother, forgive my dark misgivings." 

Now I could look up. Now I could hold the paper with a 
firm hand. There was nothing in store that I could not bear to 
hear, no misfortune I had not courage to meet. Alas ! alas I 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

^YESy** oontinued my mother; ^we were married ^Uiin 
heaven dedicated walls by a man of God, and the blessing of 
the holjTy blessed, and glorious Trinitj was pronounced upon 
oor union. Bemember this, my dearljr beloved child, remember 
that in the bosom of the church, surrounded by all the solenmi- 
ties of religion, with the golden ring, the uttered vow, and on 
bended knee, I was wedded to Henry Gubriel St. James. 

^ My step-mother refused to be present She had sufficient 
regard to the world's opinion to plead indisposition as an excuse; 
but it was a false one. She never forgave me for winning the 
love of the man whom she had herself resolved to charm, and 
from the hour of our introduction to the day of my marriage, 
my life was clouded by the gloom of her ill temper. 

^ We immediately departed for New Yprk, where St. James 
re>ided, and our bridxd home was adorned with all the elegancies 
which classic taste could select, and prodigal love lavish upon its 
idoL I was happy then, beyond the dream of imagination. St. 
James was the fondest, the kindest, the tenderest — O my Grod I 
mu^i I add — the falsest of human beings ? I did not love him 
then — I worshipped, I adored him. I have told you that my 
childish imagination was fed by wild, impassioned romances, 
and I had made to myself an ideal image, round which, like the 
maid of France, I hung the garlands of fancy, and knelt before 
its shrine. 

** Whatever has been my afler fate, I have known the felicity 
of loving in all its length and breadth and strength. And he, 
too^ loved me passionately, devotedly. Strong indeed must 
hare been the love that triumphed over principle, honor, and 

(179) 



J 80 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

truth, that broke the most sacred of human ties, and dared the 
vengeance of retributive Heaven. 

" St. Junies was an artist. He was not dependent entirely 
on liis genius for his subsistence, though his fortune was not 
large enough to enable him to live in splendid indolence^ He 
had been in Europe for the last few years, wandering amid the 
ruins of Italy, studying the grand old masters, summering in 
the valleys of Switzerland, beneath the shadow of its mountain 
heights, and polishing his bold, masterly sketches among the 
elegant artists of Paris. 

^^ With what rapture I listened to his glowing descriptions of 
foreign lands, and what beautiful castles we built where we 
were to dwell together in the golden clime of Italy or the 
sunny bowers of France I 

" At length, my Gabriella, you were given to my arms, and 
the deep, pure fountain of a mother's love welled in my youth- 
ful bosom. But my life was wellnigh a sacrifice to yours, 
For weeks it hung trembling on a thread slender and weak as 
the gossamer's web. St. James watched over me, as none but 
guardian angels could watch, and I had another faithful and 
devoted nurse, our good and matchless Peggy. To her unsleep- 
ing vigilance, her strong heart and untiring arm, I owe in a 
great measure the restoration of my health, or rather the 
preservation of my life; my health was never entirely ren- 
ovated. 

" When you were about five or six months old, St James 
ciime to me with a troubled countenance. He was summoned 
away, very unexpectedly. He would probably be obliged to go 
as far as Texas before his return ; he might be absent a month. 
Business of a perplexing nature, which it was impossible to ex- 
plain then, called him from me, but he would shorten as much 
as possible the days of absence which would be dreary and 
joyless to him. I was overwhelmed with grief at the thought 
of his leaving me ; my nerves w^ere still weak, and I wept in 
aU the abandonment of sorrow. I feared for him the dangers 
that beset the path of the traveller — sickness, death ; but I 
feared not for his honor or truth. I relied upon his integrity. 




SEKS8T LIMWOOD. 181 

•• I did upon the promisefl ef the Holy Scriptares. I did not 
mge him to explain the motives of his departorey satisfied that 
thej were just and honorable. 

''OhI little did I think, — when he clasped me in a parting 
eaibrace when he committed us both so tenderij and solemnl^r 
to the goaidianshipof oar Heavenly Father,— -little did I think 
I should so soon seek to rend him from mj heart as a vile, 
aooDised monster ; that I should shrink from the memory of his 
CBbraoes as from the coils of the serpent, the frngs of the wol£ 
God in his mer^ veils the fritore, or who coold bear the bar- 
den of coming woe ! 

^A few days after his departure, as I was seated in the 
nursery, watching yoor innocent witcheries as yoa lay cradled 
in the lap of Peggy, I was told a lady wished to see me. It 
was too eariy an hour for fashionable calls, and I went into 
the parlor expecting to meet one of those ministering spirits, 
who go about on errands of men^, seeking the aid of the rich 
for the wants of the poor. 

^ A lady was standing with her back to the door, seemingly 
occupied in gazing at a picture over the mantel-piece, an ex- 
quisite painting of St James. Her figure was slight and grace- 
ful, and she struck me at once as having a foreign air. She 
turned round at my entrance, exhilnting a pale and agitated 
countenance; a countenance which though not beautiful, was 
painfully interesting. She had a soft olive complexion, and a 
full melancholy black eye, surcharged with tears. 

^ I motioned her to a seat, for I could not speak. Her agi- 
tation was contagious, and I waited in silent trepidation to learn 
the mystery of her emotion. 

^* Forgive me this intrusion,' said she, in hesitating accents ; 
* you look so young, so innocent, so lovely, my heart misgives 
me. I cannot, I dare not' 

** She spoke in French, a language of which I was mistress, 
and I recognized at once the land of her birth. She paused, as 
if unable to proceed, while I sat, pale and cold a^ marble, won- 
dering what awful revelation she would, but dared not make. 

16 



182 KRNEST LINWOOD. 

Had she come to tell me of my husband's death, — • was my fink 
agonized thought, and I faintly articulated, — 

" ' My husband ! ' 

"* Tour husband! Poor, deluded young creature. Alas! 
alas ! I can forgive him for deserting me, but not for deceiving 
and destroying you.' 

^' I started to my feet with a galvanic spring. My veins 
tingled as if fire were running through them, and my hair rose, 
startling with electric horror. I grasped her arm with a force 
she might have felt through covering steel, and looking her 
steadfkstly in the face, exclaimed, — 

^' *' He is my husband ; mine in the face of Grod and man. He 
is my husband, and the father of my child. I will proclaim it 
in tlie face of earth and heaven. I will proclaim it till my dying 
day. How dare you come to me with slanders so vile, false, 
unprincipled woman ? ' 

'^ She recoiled a few steps from me, and held up her depre- 
cating hands. 

*' * Have pity upon me, for I am very wretched,* she cried; 
^ were it not for my child I would die in silence and despair, 
rather than rouse you from your fatal dream, but I cannot see 
him robbed of his rights. I cannot see another usurping the 
n;ime and place he was bom to fill. Madam,' continued she, 
discarding her supplicating tone, and speaking with dignity and 
force, * I am no false, unprincipled woman, inventing tales which 
I cannot corroborate. I am a wife, as pure in heart, as upright 
in purpose as you can be, — a mother as tender. Forsaken by 
him whom in spite of my wrongs I still too fondly love, I have 
left my native land, crossed the ocean's breadth, come a stran- 
ger to a strange country, that I might appeal to you for redress, 
and tell you that if you still persist in calling him your own, it 
will be in defiance of the laws of man and the canons of the 
living God.' 

**As she thus went on, her passions became roused, and 
flaslied and darkened in her face with alternations so quick 
they mocked the sight. She spoke with the rapid tongue and 




SBNX8T LINWOOB. 183 

ini|ire88iT6 gesticalation of her country, and Grod's truth was 
stamped on every word. I felt it, — * I knew it. She was no 
base, lying impostor. She was a wronged and suffering wo- 
man ; — and he, — the idol of my soul, — the friend, lover, Aut- 
tamd of my youth, — no, no I he oonld not be a villain I She 
was mad, — ha, ha, — she was mad! Bursting into a wild; 
bjsteric laugh, I sunk back on the 80&, repeating, — 

^^Poor thing, she is madi I wonder I did not know it 



" * No, madam, I am not mad,' she cried, in calmer tones ; * I 
sometimes wish I were. I am in the full possession of my 
reason, as I can abundantly prove. But little more than three 
jean since, I was married to Gabriel Henry St James, in 
Paris, my native dty, and here is the certificate which proves 
the truth of my assertion.' 

^ Taking a paper from her pocket-book, she held it towards 
me, so that I could read the writing, still retaining it in her own 
hand. I did not blame her, — ob, no ! I should have done the 
same. I saw, what seemed blazing in fire, the names of Henry 
Gabriel St. James and Ther^se Josephine La Fontaine united 
in marriage by. the usual formula of the eburch. 

**• I did not attempt to snatch it from lier, or to destroy the 
fatal paper. I gazed upon it till the characters swelled out like 
black chords, and writhed in snaky convolutions. 

** *' Do you recognize this ? ' she asked, taking from her bosom 
a gold case, and touching a spring. It fiew open and revealed 
the handsome features of St. James, beaming with the same ex- 
pression as when I first beheld him, an expression I remem- 
bered but too welL She turned it in the case, and I saw writ- 
ten on the back in gold letters, ' For my beloved wife, Ther^ 
Josephine.' 

^It was enough. The certificate might be a forgery, her 
tale a lie ; but this all but breathing picture, these indubitable 
words, were proofs of blasting power. Cold, icy shiverings ran 
through my frame, — a cold, benumbing weight pressed down 
my heart, — a black abyss opened before me, — the earth 
heaved and gave way beneath me. With a shriek that seemed 



184 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

to breathe out my life, I fell forward at the feet of her whom I 
had so guiltlessly wronged.'' 

Thus far had I read, with clenching teeth and rigid limba^ 
and brow on which chill, deadly drops were slowly gatherings 
when my mother's shriek seemed suddenly to ring in my ears,— 
the knell of a broken heart, a ruined frame, — and I sprang up 
and looked wildly round me. Where was I ? Who was I ? 

Were the heavens turned to brass and the sun to blood, or 
was yon saffron belt the gold of declining day, — yon crimson 
globe, the sun rolling through a hazy, sultry atmosphere ? What 
meant that long green mound stretching at my side, that broken 
shafl, twined with the cypress vine ? I clasped both hands over 
my temples, as these questions drifted through my mind, then 
bending my knees, I sunk lower and lower, till my heaid rested 
on the grave. I was conscious of but one wish — to stay there 
and die. The bolt of indelible disgrace quivered in my heart ; 
why should I wish to live ? 




CHAPTER XXV. 

I Dm not becmne insensible, but I was dead to surrounding 
objects, dead to the present, dead to the future. The past, the 
terrible, the inexorable past, was upon me, trampling me, grinds 
ii^ me with iron heel, into the dust of the grave. I could not 
move, for its nightmare weight crushed me. I could not see, 
for its blackness shrouded me ; nor hear, for its shrieks deaf- 
ened me. Had I remained long in that awful condition, I 
should have become a maniac 

^ Gabriella ! " said a voice, which at any other moment would 
have wakened a thrill of rapture, ^ Grabriella, speak, — look up. 
Why do you do this ? Why will you not speak ? Do you not 
hear me ? " 

I did try to speak, but my toogue seemed frozen. I did try 
to lift my head, but in vain. 

Ernest Linwood, for it was he, knelt down by me, and put- 
ting his arms round me, raised me from the ground, without 
any volition of my own. I know not what state I was in. I 
was perfectly conscious ; but had no more power over the 
movement of a muscle than if I were dead. My eyes were closed, 
and my head drooped on his breast, as he raised me, bowed 
by its own weight. I was in a kind of conscious catalepsy* 
He was alarmed, terrified. As he aflerwards told me, he really 
believed me dead, and clasping me to him with an energy of 
which he was not aware, adjured me in the most tender and 
passionate manner to speak and tell him that I lived. 

^ Gabriella, my flower-girl, my darling I " he cried, pressing 
my cheek with those pure, despairing kisses with which love 
hallows death. Had I indeed passed the boundaries of life, for 

16* (!«*) 



'* 



186 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

my spirit alone was conscious of caresses, whose remembranes 
tlirilled through my being. 

The reaction was instantaneous. The chilled blood grew 
warm and rushed through every vein with wild rapidity. 
Then I became physically conscious, and glowing with con- 
fusion I raised myself from my reclining position, and 
attempted to look up into the face of Ernest. But I could 
not do it. Contending emotions deprived me of the power of 
self-command. 

" This is fiadness, Gabriella ! This is suicide ! " he exclaimed, 
lifting me from the grave, and still supporting me with hii amL 
^^ Why do you come here to nurse a grief so far beyond the 
limits of reason and religion ? Why do you give your friends 
such exquisite pain, yourself such unnecessary misery ? " 

^< Do not reproach me," I cried. '^ You know not what cause 
I have for anguish and despair.'* 

^^ Despair, Gabriella ! You cannot know the meaning of that 
word. Despair belongs to guilt, and even that is not hopeless. 
And why do you come to this lone place of graves to weep, as 
if human sympathy were denied to your sorrows ? Is not my 
mother kind, — is not Edith tender and affectionate ? Am not 
I worthy to be trusted, as a friend, — a protector, — a redresscr ; 
and if need be, an avenger of wrongs ? " 

" My own wrongs I might reveal ; but those of the dead are 
sacred," I answered, stooping down and gathering up the manu- 
script, which was half concealed in the long, damp grass. 
" But do not think me ungrateful. What I owe to your mother 
and Edith words can never tell. In every prayer I breathe to 
heaven I shall call down blessings on their head. And you 
too, — you have been more than kind. I never can forget it." 

^^ If it be not too presumptuous, I will unite your name with 
theirs, and pray that God may bless you, now and ever more.** 

" This will never do," said he, drawing me forcibly from the 
mournful place. " You fnust confide in my mother, Grobriella. 
A dark secret is a plague spot in the heart. Confide in my 
mother. It is due to her maternal love and guardianship. 
And beware of believing that any thing independent ofyourtdf 




SmVXBT LINWOOD. 187 

alienate lier affectioiis. Can yon walk? If it were not 
ftr leaving joa akme, I wooldgoand retom with the carriage.* 

^ Oh, jm ; I am quite well and strong again.*' 

^Then lean on me, GJabrielhu Shrink not from an aim 
which would ^adlj protect joa from every danger and eveiy 
wrong. Let us hasten, lest I utter words which I would not 
tar worlds associate with a scene so cold and sad. Not where 
the shadow of death &lls — no — not here." 

He harried me through the gate, and then paused. 

^ Best here a moment,** said he, ^ and recover your com- 
posme. We may meet with those who would wonder to see 
jOQ thos, with your hair wildly fbmng, your scarf loose and 
dtsordered.** 

''Thank you,** I ezdaimed, my thoughts coming to the sur- 
ftee, and resting there with shame. I had forgotten that my 
bonnet was in my hand, that my comb had fidlen, leaving my 
hair loose and dishevelled. Gathering up its length, and twist- 
ing it in thick folds around my head, I confined it with my bon- 
net, and smoothing my thin scarf^ I took his arm in silence, and 
walked on through the purple gloom of twilight that deepened 
before us. Slight shivers ran through my frame. The damp- 
ness of the grave-yard clung to me, and the night dews were 
beginning to falL 

**• Are you cold, GabrieUa ? ** he asked, folding my Ught man- 
tle more closely round me. ** You are not sufficiently protected 
from the dewy air. Tou are weary and chilL You do not 
lean on me. You do not confide in me.** 

*^ In whom should I confide, then ? Without father, brother, 
or protector, in whom should I confide, if ungrateful and un- 
IruMing I tarn from you ? ** 

As I said this, I suffered my arm to rest more firmly on his, 
for my steps were indeed weary, and we were now ascending 
the hilL My heart was deeply touched by his kindness, and 
tlie involuntary ejaculations he uttered, the involuntary caresses 
he bestowed, when he believed me perfectly unconsdousy were - 
treasured sacredly there. We were now by the large ehn-lree 
that shaded the way-side, beneath whose boughs I had so often 



188 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

paused to gaze on the valley below. Without speaking, he led 
me to this resting-place, and we both looked back, as waj&r- 
ers are wont to do when they stop in an ascending path. 

Calmly the shadows rested on the landscape, softly yet 
darkly they rolled down the slope of the neighboring hills and 
the distant mountains. In thin curlings, the gray smoke floated 
upwards and lay slumberously among the fleecy clouds. Here 
and there a mansion, lifted above the rest, shed from its glow- 
ing windows the reflection of departing day. Bright on the 
dusky gold of the west the evening-star shone and throbbed, 
like a pure love-thought in the heart of night ; and, dimly glim- 
mering above the horizon, the giant pen seemed writing the Mene 
Tekel of my clouded destiny on the palace walls of heaven. 

As we thus stood, lifted above the valley, involved in shadows, 
silent and alone, I could hear the beating of my heart, louder 
and louder in the breathing stillness. 

" Gabriella ! " said Ernest, in a low voice, and that master^ 
chord which no hand but his had touched, thrilled at the sound. 
" If the spot on which we stand were a desert island, and the 
valley stretching around us the wide waste of ocean, and we 
the only beings in the solitude of nature, with your hand thus 
chispcd in mine, and my heart thus throbbing near, witli a love 
so strong, so deep, it would be to you in place of the whole 
world beside, — tell me, could you be happy ? ** 

** I could," was the low, irresistible answer ; and my soul, like 
an illuminated temple, flashed with inward light. I covered 
my eyes to keep in the dazzling rays. I forgot the sad history 
of wrongs and disgrace which I had just been perusing; — I 
forgot that such words had breathed into my mother's ear, and 
that she believed them. I only remembered that Ernest Lin- 
wood loved me, and that love surrounded me with a luminous 
atmosphere, in which joy and hope fluttered their heavenly 
wings. 

How slight a thing will change the current of thought ! I 
caught a glimpse of the granite walls of Grandison Place, and 
darkened by the shades, they seemed to frown upon me with 
their high turret and lofty colonnade, so ancestral and imposing. 




XBNJiST LIHWOOD. 189 

Tlien I remembered Mn. Linwood and Edith, — then .1 re- 
membered mj mother, mj father^ and all the light went oat ia 
mj heart. 

'^Ihad fiM^otten,— -dhyhowmndilhad forgotten,'* I cried, 
endeavoring to release myself from the arm that only tightened 
Ha hold. ^ Yomr mother never woold forgive my presnmption 
if she thooght, — if she knew.** 

''My mother loves you ; hot even if she did not, I am fiee to 
act, ftee to dioose, as every man should be. I love and revere 
mj mother, but there is a passion stronger than filial love and 
veverenoe, which goes on conqoering and to conqoer. She will 
not, she cannot oppose me.** 

«« But Edith, dear £dith, who loves yon so devotedly I She 
will hate me if I dare to snpplant her.** 

''A sister never can be sapphmted, — and least of all sach a 
sister as Edith, Gabriella. If yon do not fed that love so exr 
pands, so enlarges the heart, that it makes room for all the 
angels in heaven, yon ooold not share my island home." 

** If you knew all, — if I could tell yon all,** I cried, — and 
again I felt the barbed anguish that prostrated me at the 
grave, — ** and you ehall know, — your generous love demands 
this confidence. -When your mother has read the history of 
my parentage, I will place it in your hands ; though my mother^ 
character is as exalted and spotless as your own, there is a cloud 
over my name that will for ever rest upon it Knowing thaij 
you cannot, you will not wish to unite your noble, brilliant des- 
tiny with mine. This hour will be remembered as a dream, a 
bright, but fleeting dream." 

^'Whatdolcare for the past?" he exclaimed, detaining me as 
I endeavored to move on. '^ Talk not of a clouded name. Will 
not mine absorb it? What shaft of malice can pierce you, 
with my arm as a defence, and my bosom as a shield ? Gabri- 
ella, it is you that I love, not the dead and buried past You 
are the representative of all present joy and hope. I ask for noth- 
ing but your love,*— your exclusive, boundless love,— a love 
•thai will be ready to sacrifice every thing but innocence and 
integrity for me, — that will ding to me in woe as in weal, in 



190 EBNE8T LINWOOD. 

shame as in honor, in death as in life. Such is the love I giva, 
and such I ask in return. Is it mine ? Tell me not of oppos- 
ing barriers ; only tell me what your heart this moment dictates, 
forgetful of the past, regardless of the future? Is this loTe 
mine ? " 

^<It is," I answered, looking up through fast-falling tears. 
" AVhy will you wring this confession from me, when you only 
know it too well ? " 

^^ One question more, Gabriella, for your truth-telling lips to 
answer. Is this love only given in return f Did it not spring 
spontaneously forth from the warmth and purity of your own 
heart, without waiting the avowal of mine ? Gratitude is not 
love. It is sione, not bread, to a spirit as exacting as mine." 

Again the truth was forced from me by his unconquerable 
will, — a will that opened the secret valves of thought, and rolled 
away the rock from the fountain of feeling. Even then I felt 
the despotism as well as the strength of his love. 

I cannot, I dare not, repeat all that he uttered. It would be 
deemed too extravagant, too high-wrought And so it was. 
Let woman trQjnble rather than exult, when she is the object of 
a passion so intense. The devotion of her whole being cannot 
satisfy its inordinate demands. Though the flame of the sacri- 
fice ascend to heaven, it still cries, " Bring gifts to the altar, — 
bring the wine of the banquet, — the incense of the temple, — 
tlie fuel of the hearth-stone. Bring all, and still I crave. 
Give all, I ask for more." 

Not thi^n was this warning suggested. To be wildly, pas- 
sionately loved, was my heart's secret prayer. Life itself would 
be a willing sacrifice to this devotion. Suspicion that stood 
sentinel at the door of Faith, Distrust that tlirew its shadow 
over the sunshine of truth, and Jealousy, doubting, yet adoring 
still, would be welcomed as household guests, if the attendants 
of this impassioned love. Such was the dream of my giri- 
hood. 

When we entered the lawn, lights began to glimmer in the 
house. I trembled at the idea of meeting IMrs. Linwood, or 
the Amazonian Meg. There was a side door tlurough which I 




XEMS8T LINWOOD. 191 

mdfjkA pM8 uDobsenred, and by this ingress I sooght mj cham* 
ber and lo^ed the door. A lamp was bnming on the table* 
Had I lingered abroad so late? Had the absence of Ernest 
been observed? 

I sat down on the side of the bed, threw off mj bonnet and 
acarfy shook mj hair over my shodders, and pushed it badL 
with both hands from my throbbing temples. I wanted room. 
Such crowding thoaghts, such overflowing emotions^ could not 
be compressed in those four walls. I rose and walked the 
loom hmck and forth, without fear of being overiteaid, on the 
soft carpet of velvet roses. What revelations had been made 
known to me unce I had qiutted that room ! How low I had 
been degraded, — how royally exalted I A child unentitled to 
her fioher^s namel — a nuuden, endowed with a princely heart! 
I walked as one in a dream, doubting my own identity. But 
one master thought governed every other. 

^ He loves me ! ** I repeated to myself. ^ Ernest Linwood 
k>ve8 me I Whatever be the future, that present bliss is mine. 
I have tasted wonuin's highest, holiest joy, — the joy of loving 
and being beloved. Sorrow and trial may be 'mine ; but this 
remembrance will remain, a blessed light through the darkness 
of time, — ^ a star on eternity's ocean.' " 

As I passed and repassed the double mirror, my reflected 
figure seemed an apparition gliding by my side. I paused and 
stood before one of them, and I thought of the time when, first 
awakened to the consciousness of personal influence, I gazed on 
my own image. Some writer has said, ^ that every woman is 
beautiful when she loves." There certainly is a light, coming 
op from the enkindled heart, bright as the solar ray, yet pure 
and sofl as moonlight, which throws an illusion over the plain- 
est features and makes wem for the moment charming. I saw 
the flower-giri of the library in the mirror, and then I knew 
that the artist had intended her as the idealiiatioQ of Love's 



And then I remembered the nuMrning when we sat together 
In the libnury, and he took the roses from my basket and ioa^ 
tered the leaves at my feet. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

A THUNDERING rap at the door startled mj meditations. I 
knew there was but one pair of knuckles in the house dupable 
of beating such a tattoo, and I recoiled from admitting such a 
boisterous guest. 

^' Gabriella, Gabriella I " rung a voice through the passage. 
" Are you asleep ? Are you dead ? Open the door, pi^J^ ®' 
I sliall kill myself squeezing in through the key-hole.^ . 

AVith a deep sigh of vexation, I opened the door, and she 
sprang in with the momentum of a ball hurled by a bat. 

*-^ My dear creature ! " she exclaimed, catching me round the 
waist and turning me to the light, ^ what have you been doing ? 
where have you been staying ? Ill I — tired I — it is all a sham. 
He need not try to impose on me such a story as that. I never 
saw you look so brilliantly well. Your cheeks and lips are 
red like the damask rose, and your eyes, — I never saw such 
eyes before. Come here and look in the glass. Ill I — ha, ha! " 

*^ I have been ill," I answered, shrinking from her reckless 
hand, " and I was very tired ; I feel better now." 

# 

^^ Yes, I should think you did. You rested long enough bj 
the way, Heaven knows ; we saw you climbing the hill at 
sunset, and the lamps were lighted before you came in. I was 
going after you, but Mrs. Linwood would not let me. Ah! 
you have animated the statue, thou modem Fygmafiona. Yea 
have turned back into flesh this enchanted man of stone. Tell 
it in Gath, publish it in Askelon ; but the daughters of fashion 
will mourn, the tribes of the neglected will envy." 

^ I cannot match you in brilliant speeches, Miss MelTille.* 
^ Call mc Miss Melville again, if you dare. Call me "MaigPf 

(192) 




XKHX8T LIMWOOD. 198 

CT Meg; bat as sore as you mount the stiHs of oeremonj, I will 
whisk yoo off at the risk of breaking your neck. Hark 1 there 
is the sapper belL Comey jost as yoa are. Yoa never looked 
so charming. That wild flow of the hair is perfectly bewitch- 
ing. I do n't wonder Mr. Invincible has groanded his weapons, 
notL K I wereayoangman,— ha,ha!'' 

^ I sometimes fear yoa are,'* I cried. At this remaA she borst 
into soch a wild fit of langhter, I thoaght she never woald 
cease. It drowned the ringing of the bell, and stiU kept gosli- 
ing over afiresh. 

^ Ask Mrs. lanwood to ezcose me from sapper," said I; ^I 
do not wish any, indeed I do not** 

^ Wen, I am not one of the air pkmts ; I most have something 
more substantial than sent^pent, or I shoald pine with green 
and yelk>w hanger, not melancholy. I never cried bat once, 
that I recollect, and that was when a favorite black cat of mine 
was killed, — malidoasly, villanoasly killed, by an old maid^ 
just becaose she devoared her favorite Canary. No, with the 
daughter of Jephthah, I exclaimed, — 

' Let my memoiy ttill be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died.' 

Shatting, or rather slamming the door, she boonded down the 
stairs with the steps of the chamois. 

I had not finished my mother^s history, bat I had passed the 
breaJbers. There coald be nothing beyond so fearful and wreck- 
ing. The remainder was brie^ and written at times with a 
weak and failing hand. 

^ How long I remained in that deadly swoon,'' continued the 
manuscript, " I know not. When I recovered, I was lying on 
my bed, with Peggy standing on <Hie side and a physician on 
the other. As soon as I looked up, Peggy burst into tears. 
<<'Thank GodI ' she sobbed, 'I thought she was dead.' 
""'Hush!' said the doctor; ' let her be kept perfect^ quiet. 
Give her this composing drauf^ and let no one be admitted to 
her diainber,— not even her child.' 



194 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" Child ! it all came back to me. Where was she, that dread- 
ful woman? Starting up in bed, I looked wildly round the 
room for the haunting phantom, — she was not a reality, — I 
must have had a terrible dream. 

" * Yes ! ' said the doctor, answering the expression of my 
countenance, ^ you have had a shocking nightmare. Driok 
this, and you will awake refreshed.' 

" Yielding passively, I drank the colorless fluid be oflered me, 
and sinking back on my pillow passed into a deep and tranquil 
sleep. AVhcn I awoke, the silence and darkness of night 
brooded around me. My mind now was clear as crystal, and 
every image appeared with startling distinctness. I lay still 
and calm, revolving what course to pursue ; and as I Liy and 
revolved, doubts of the truth of }f^r story grew stronger and 
stronger. All my husband's love and tenderness rose in re- 
membrance, vindicating liis aspersed honor. She had forged 
the tale, — she had stolen the picture, — she was an impostor 
and a wretch. 

** At morning light, I awakened Peggy, and demanded of her 
wliat had occurred during my insensible state, and what had be- 
come of the strange woman. Peggy said that the piercing 
shrieks of the stranger brought her to the parlor, where I lay 
like a corpse on the carpet, and she kneeling over me, ringing 
her hands, and uttering unintelligible words. 

**'You have killed her,* cried Peggy, pushing back the 
stranger, and taking me in her strong arms. 

"*t/e le sais, man Dieu, je le saisy exclaimed she, lilYing 
h(;r elasj)ed hands to heaven. Peggy did not understand 
French, but she repeated the words awkwardly enough, yet I 
could interpret them. 

"As they found it impossible to recall me to life, a physician 
was sununoned, and as soon as he came the stranger disap- 
peared. 

"*Don't think of her anymore,' said Peggy; * do n't, Mrs. 
St. James, — I don't believe a word of her story, — she's 
crazy, — she 's a lunatic, you may be sure she is, — she looked 
stark mad.' 




XRHS8T LINWOOD. 195 

^ I tried to belieTe this assertion, bat somethiDg told me she 
wms no maniac. I tried to believe her an impostor, — I a*** 
•erted she was,-— hot if so, she transcended all the actresses in 
the world.. I coald not eat, I could not bear jou, my darling 
Gabriella, to be brought into my presence. Your innocent 
Mniles were daggers to my heart 

^ But she came again, Theresa, the avenger, — she came fol- 
lowed by a woman, leading by the hand a beautiful boy. 

^ Here was proof that needed no confirmation. 'Every in- 
fimtine feature bore the similitude of St James. The eyes, the 
Mnile, his miniature self was there. I no longer doubted, — no 
longer hesitated. 

^^ Leave me,' I cried, and despair lent me calmnesH. 'I 
resign all claims to the nam^ the fortune, and the affections of 
him who has so cruelly wronged us. Not for worlds tK>uld I 
remain even one day longer in the home he has desecrated by 
his crimes. Respect my sorrows, and leave me. You may 
return to-morrow.' 

** " Ohj juste del ! ' she exclaimed. ' Je suis tres malheureuse* 

^ Snatching her child in her arms, and raising it as high as 
her strengtli could lifl it, she called upon God to witness that it 
wa.< only for his sake she had asserted her legal rights ; that, 
having lost the heart of her husband, all she wished was to die. 
Then, siniiing on her knees before me, she entreated me to 
forgive her the wretchedness she had caused. 

^'/forgive you?' I cried. 'Alas! it is I should supplicate 
your forgiveness. I do ask it in the humility of a broken 
heart But go — go — if you would not see me die.' 

^Terrified at my ghastly countenance, Peggy commanded 
the nurse to take tlie child from the room. Ther^ followed 
with lingering steps, casting back upon me a glance of pity 
and remorse. I never saw her again. 

^ *' And now, Peggy,' said I, * you are the only friend I have 
in the wide world. Yet I must leave you. With my child 
in my arms, I am going forth, like Ilagar, into the wildemeM 
of Itfe. I have money enough to save me from immediato 
want Heaven will gnaid the future*' 



19G ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" ' And wlierc will you go ? ' asked Peggy, passing the baci 
• of her hand over her eyes. 

*' ' Alas, I know not. I have no one to counsel mc, no one to 
whom I can turn for assistance or go for shelter. Cven my 
Heavenly Father hidcth his face from me.' 

" ' Oh, Mrs. St. James ! ' 

^< < Call mc not by that accursed name. Call me Rosalie. 
It was a dying mother's gift, and they cannot rob me of that.' 

** * Miss Kosalic, I will never quit you. There is nobody in 
the world I love half as well, and if you will let me stay with 
you, I will wait on you, and take care of the babj all the days 
of my life.' 

'< Then she told mc how she came from New England to live 
with a brother, who had since di^ of consumption, and 1k)w 
she was going back, because she did not like to live in a great 
city, when the doctor got her to come to nurse me in sickness, 
and how she had learned to love me so well she could not bear 
the thoughts of going away from me. She told me, too, how 
quiet and happy people could live in that part of the conntr}' ; 
how they could get along upon almost nothing at all, and be 
just as private as they pleased, and nobody would pester them 
or make them afraid. 

" She knew exactly how she came to the city, and we could 
go the same way, only we would wind about a little and not go 
to the ])lace where she used to live, so that folks need ask no 
questions or know any thing about us. 

" With a childlike dependence, as implicit as your own, and 
as instinctive, I threw myself on Peggy's strong heart and 
great common sense. With ecjual judgment and energy, she 
arranged every thing for our departure. She had the resolu- 
tion and fortitude of a man, with the tenderness and fidelity of 
a woman. I submitted myself entirely to her guidance, raying, 
* It was well.' But when I was alone, I clasped you in agony 
to my bosom, and prostrating myself before the footstool of 
Jehovah, I prayed for a bolt to strike us, mother and child 
together, that we might be spared the bitter cup of humiliation 
and woe. One moment I dared to think of mingling our life- 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 197 

blood together in the grave of the suicide; the next, with 
Btreftming eyes, I implored forgiveness for the impious thought. 

^It is needless to dwell minutely on the circumstances of our 
departure. We left that beautiful mansion, once the abode of 
love and happiness, now a dungeon house of despair; — we 
came to this lone, obscure spot, where I resumed mj father^s 
name, and gave it to jou. At first, curiosity sought out the 
melancholy stranger, but Peggy's incommunicativeness and 
sound judgment baffled its scrutiny. In a little while, we were 
suffered to remain in the seclusion we desired. Here you have 
passed from in&ncy to childhood, from childhood to adolescence, 
unconscious that a doud deeper than poverty and obscurity 
rests upon your youth. I could not bear that my innocent child 
should blush for a father's viUany. I could not bear that her 
holy confidence in human goodness and truth should be shat- 
tered and destroyed. But the day of revelation must come. 
From the grave, whither I am hastening, my voice shall speak ; 
for the time may come, when a knowledge of your parentage 
will be indispensable, and concealment be considered a crime. 

** Should you hereafter win the love of an honorable and no- 
ble heart, (for such are sometimes found,) every honorable and 
noble feeling will prompt you to candor and truth, with regard 
to your personal relations. I need not tell you this. 

*^ And now, my darling child, I leave you one solemn dying 
diarge. Should it ever be your lot to meet that guilty, erring 
fiuher, whose care you have never known, whose name you 
have never borne, let no vindictive memories rise against him. 

^ Tell him, I forgave him, as I hope to be forgiven by my 
Heavenly Father, for all my sins and transgressions, and my 
idolatrous love of him. Tell him, that now, as life is ebbing 
•lowly away like the sands of the hour-glass, and I can calmly 
look back upon the past, I bless him for being the means of 
leading my wandering footsteps to the green fields and still 
pastures of the great Shepherd of IsraeL Had he never pre* 
pared for me the bitter cup of sorrow, I had not perchance 
tasted the purple juice which my Saviour trod the wine-press 
of God's wrath to obtain. Had not * k>ver and friend been 

17 • 



198 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

taken from me,' I might not have turned to the Frigid of nii> 
ners ; the Divine Love of mankind. Tell him then, oh Gabri- 
clk ! that I not only forgave, but blessed him with the heart of a 
woman and the spirit of a Christian. 

^ I had a dream, a strange, wild dream last night, which I am 
constrained to relate. I am not superstitious, but its echo lin- 
gers in my soul. 

'^ I dreamed that your father was exposed to some mysterious 
danger, that you alone could avert That I saw him plunging 
down into an awful abyss, lower and lower ; and that he called 
on you, Grabriella, to save him, in a voice that might have rent 
the heavens ; and then they seemed to open, and you ap- 
peared distant as a star, yet distinct and fair as an angel, slowly 
descending right over the yawning chasm. Tou stretched out 
your arms towards him, and drew him upward as if by an in- 
visible chain. As he rose, the dark abyss was transformed to 
beds of roses, whose fragrance was so intensely sweet it waked 
mc. It was but a dream, my Gabriella, but it may be that 
God destined you to fulfil a glorious mission: to lead your 
crnng father back to the Grod he has forsaken. It may be, that 
through you, an innocent and injured child, the heart sundered 
on earth may be reunited in heaven. 

" One more charge, my best beloved. In whatever situation 
of life you may be placed, remember our boundless obligations 
to the faithful Peggy, and never, never, be separated from her. 
Repay to her as far as possible the long, long debt of love and 
devotion due from us both. She has literally forsaken all to 
follow me and mine ; and if there is a crown laid up in heaven 
for the true, self-sacrificing heart, that crown will one day be 
hers. 

^^ The pen falls from my hand. Farewell trembles on my 
lips. Oh! at this moment I feel the triumph of faith, the 
glory of religion. 

*' ' Other refuge haye I none; 

Hangs my helpless soul on thee ; 
Leave, oh, leave mo not alone. 
Still support and comfort me.' 




XRHX8T LIMWOOD. 199 

''Not me akme, O oompassionate and blessed Savioiirl bat 
the dear, the predous, the onlj one I leave behind. To thine 
exceeding love, to the care of a mighty God, the blessed influ- 
ences of the Holj Spirit, I now commit her. ' Whom have I 
in heaven bot thee, and there is nanght on earth which I de* 
sire beside thee.' " 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

Edith came in, as usual, before she retired for the night, and 
expressed affectionate concern for my indisposition ; but there 
was an air of constraint, which I could not help perceiving. 
My eyes fell before hers, with conscious guilt. For had I not 
robbed her of that first place in her brother's heart, which she 
had so long claimed as her inalienable right ? 

I had one duty to perform, and I resolved to do it before I 
laid my head on the pillow. With the manuscript in my hand, 
I souglit the chamber of Mrs. Linwood. She sat before a 
small table, her head resting thoughtfully on her hand, with an 
open Bible before her. She looked up at my entrance, with a 
countenance of gentle seriousness, and extended her hand affec- 
tionately. 

"Walking hastily towards her, I knelt at her feet, and laying 
tlie manuscript in her lap, burst into tears. 

" Oh ! Mrs. Linwood," I cried, " will your love and kindness 
survive the knowledge of all these pages will reveal ? Will a 
mother's virtues cancel the record of a father's guilt? Can 
you cherish and protect me still ? " 

She bent over me and took me in her arms, while tears trem- 
bk'd in her eyes. 

" I know all, my dear child," she said ; " there is nothing new 
to be revealed. Your mother gave me, on her death-bed, a 
brief liistory of her life, and it only increased your claims on 
my maternal care. Do you think it possible, Gabriella, that I 
could be so unjust and unkind, as to visit the sins of a father 
on the head of an innocent and unoffending child ? No ; be- 
lieve me, nothing but your own conduct could ever alienate my 
affections or confidence." 

(200) 




XRNX8T LINWOOD. 201 

<* Teach me to deserve it, dear Mrs. Lin wood,— teach me 
bow to prove mj loyOi my gratitade, and veneration.'' 

^ By confiding in me as a mother, trusting me as a friend, 
and seeking me as a guide and counsellor in this most dangerous 
season of youth and temptation, jou are veiy dear to me, €ra- 
briella. Next to my own son and daughter, I love you, nor do 
I consider their happiness a more sacred deposit than yours." 

^Oh! Mrs. Linwood," I exclaimed, covering my burning 
£tce with my hands, and again bowing it on her lap — ^Ask me 
anything, — and nothing shall be held back — I cannot— -I 
dare not — perhaps I ought not — ** 

^ Tell me that my son loves you ? ** 

I started and trembled ; but as soon as the words passed her 
lips I gathered courage to meet whatever she might say. 

'^ If it be indeed so," I answered, ^ should not the revelation 
come from him, rather than me ? " 

^ There needs no formal declaration. I have seen it, known 
it, even before yourselves were conscious of its existence — this 
all engrossing passion. Before my son's return I foresaw it, 
with the prescience of maternal love. I knew your young, 
imaginative heart would find its ideal in him, and that his fas- 
tidious taste and sensitive, reserved nature would be charmed 
by your simplicity, freshness, and genius. I knew it, and yet I 
could not warn you. For when did youth ever believe the 
cautions of age, or passion listen to the voice of truth ? " 

" Warn me, madam ? Oh, you mean him, not me. I never 
had the presumption to think myself his equal ; never sought, 
never aspired to his love. You believe me, Mrs. Linwood — 
tell me, you believe me in this ? " 

"• I do, Gabriella. Your heart opened as involuntarily and 
as inevitably to receive him, as the fiower unfolds itself to the 
noonday sun. It is your destiny ; but would to Gk)d I could 
oppose it, that I could substitute for you a happier, if less bril- 
liant lot.*' 

. **X happier lot than to be the wife of Ernest? Oh I Mrs. 
Linwood, Heaven offers nothing to the eye of fidth more bliss- 
ful, more divine." 



202 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" ALos ! my child, such is always the dream of lore Ukc 
yours, and from such dreams there must be a day of awakening. 
God never intended their realization in this world. You look 
up to me with wondering and reproachful glance. You have 
feared me, Gabriella, feared that I would oppose my son's 
choice, if it rested on one so lowly as you believe yourself. 
You arc mistaken — I have no right to dictate to him. He is 
more than of age, has an independent fortune and an independ- 
ent will. The husband lifts his wife to his own position in so- 
ciety, and his name annihilates hers. The knowledge of yonr 
father's character gives me pain, and the possibility of his ever 
claiming you as his child is a source of deep inquietude, — but 
it is' chiefly for you I tremble, for you I suffer, my beloved 
Gabriella." 

I looked up in consternation and alarm. What invisible 
sword hung trembling over the future ? 

" Ernest," she began, then stopping, she raised me from my 
kneeling attitude, led me to a sofa, and made me seat myself at 
her side. ** P>nest," she continued, holding my hand tenderly 
in hers, " has many noble and attractive qualities. He is just, 
generous, and honorable ; he is upright, honest, and true ; the 
shadow of deceit never passed over his soul, the stain of a 
mean action never rested on his conduct. But," — and her 
hand involuntarily tightened around mine, — "he has qualititf 
fatal to the jx'ace of those who love him, — fatal to his own hap- 
piness ; suspicion haunts him like a dark shadow, — jealousy, 
liko a serpent, lies coiled in his heart." 

** lie has told mo, all this," I cried, with a sigh of rtdief,— 
*' but J fear not, — my confidence shall be Sip entire, there shall 
be no room for suspicion, — my love so perfect it shall cast out 
jealousy." 

'* So I once tliought and reasoned in all the glow of youthftd 
enthusiasm, but experience came with its icy touch, and enthu- 
siasm, hope, joy, and love itself faded and died. The dark pas- 
sions of Ernest are liercditary, — they belong to the blood that 
flows in his veins, — they are part and lot of his existence,— 
they are the phantoms that haunted his father's path, and cast 




SBNEST LINWOOD. 208 

their chill shadows over the brief years of mj married life. 
The remembraDce of what I have sofiTered myself, makes me 
tremble for her who places her happiness in mj son's keeping. 
A woman cannot be happy unless she is trusted." 

^ Not if she is beloved I " I exclaimed. ^ It seems to me 
that love should cover every fault, and jealousy be pardoned 
without an effort, since it is a proof of the strength and fervor 
of one's affection. Let me be loved, — I ask no more." 

" You love my son, Gabriella ? " 

"Love him!" I repeated, — ^oh that you could look into 
my heart ! " 

Blushing at the fervor of my manner, I turned my crimson 
hce from her gaze. Then I remembered that he knew not yet 
what might place an insurmountable barrier between us, and I 
entreated Mrs. Linwood to tell him what I wanted courage to 
relate. 

^^ I will, my child, but it will make no difference with him. 
His high, chivalrous sense of honor will make the circum- 
stances of your birth but a new claim on his protection, — and 
his purposes are as immovable as his passions are strong. But 
let us talk no more to-night. It is late, and you need rest. 
We will renew the subject when you are more composed — I 
might say both. I could not give you a greater proof of 
my interest in your happiness, than the allusion I have 
made to my past life. Never before have I lifted the cur- 
tain from errors which death has sanctified. Let the confi- 
dence be sacred. Ernest and Edith must never know that 
a shadow rested on their father's virtues. Nothing but the 
hope of saving you from the sufferings which once were mine, 
could have induced me to rend the veil from the temple of my 
heart." 

** How solemn, how chilling arc your words," said I, feeling 
very faint and sad. " I wish I had not heard them. Do joy 
and sorrow always thus go hand in hand? In the last few 
hours I have known the two great extremes of life. I have 
been plunged into the depths of despair and r^sed to the sum- 
mit of hope. I am dizzy and weak by the sudden transition. 



204 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

I will retire, dear madam, for mj head feels strangelj bewil- 
dered/' 

Mrs. Linwood embraced me with mmsaal tenderness, kissed 
me on both cheeks, and accompanied me to the door with i 
fervent " Grod bless you I " 




CHAPTER XXVIII. 

As soon as I reached my chamber, I threw myself on my 
bed, which seemed to roll beneath me with a billowy motion. 
Never had I felt so strangely, so wildly. Confused images 
crowded through my brain. I moved on an undulating surface. 
Now, it was the swelling and sinking of the blue gray waves of 
ocean, — then, the heaving green of the churchyard, billows of 
death, over which the wind blew damp and chill. I had left 
the lamp unextinguished, where its light reflected the rosy red 
of the curtains, and that became a fiery meteor shooting through 
crimson cloudi, and leaving a lurid track behind it. 

I sat up in bed ; frightened at the wild confusion of my brain, 
I passed my hands over my eyes to remove the illusion, but in 
vain. The massy wardrobe changed to the rocky walls of tho 
Rip Raps, and above it I saw the tall form of the white-locked 
chief. The carpet, with its clusters of mimic flowers, on a pale 
gray ground, was a waste of waters, covered with roses, among- 
which St. James was swimming and trying to grasp them. 

" What is the matter ?" 1 cried, clasping my burning hands. 
** Am I asleep, and are these images but the visions of a fever- 
ish imagination ? " 

" You dream, my love," answered the low, deep voice of Er- 
nest ; ** but my mother is coming to awaken you with a cold 
and icy hand. I have scattered roses over you while you slept, 
but her blighting touch has withered them." 

Thus vision after vision succeeded each other, hurrying along 
like clouds in a tempestuous sky. I suppose I must have slept 
mt las^ but the morning found me in a state of utter eidiaustion. 

18 (2W) 



206 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Nervous excitement, sitting so long on the damp grass, and lin- 
gering out in tlie dewy evening air, brought on an illness which 
confined nie to my bed many days. Dr. Ilarlowe threatened to 
put me in a strait-jacket and send me to a lunatic asylum, if 
I did not behave better in future. 

" I must take you home with me," he said ; " our quiet, hum- 
drum mode of life is better for you, after all. Your little rock- 
ing chair stands exactly where you used to sit in it, I do not 
like to see any one else occupy it I get in disgrace with my 
wife every day, now you are not by me to hang up my hat and 
remind me by a glance to shake the dust from my feet. Such 
a quick pulse as this will never do, my child." 

For a week I was kept in a darkened room, and perfect quie- 
tude was commanded. The doctor came every day, and some- 
times several times a day, with his smiling, sunny oouute- 
nanco, and anxious, affectionate heart. Mrs. Linwood and 
J'Mith stole gently in and out, with steps soft as falling snow- 
ilakes, and JMargaret Melville was not permitted to enter at all. 
Every morning fresh flowers were laid upon my pillow, which I 
knew were gathere<l by the hand of Ernest, and they whispered 
to me of such sweet things my languid senses ached to hear 
them. 

One day, while in this passive, languishing, dreamy condi- 
tion, having fallen into trancpiil slumbers, I was left a few 
moments alone. I was awakened by a stronger touch than that 
of Editlfs fairv hand. 

" Why, how do you do, darling ? How do you do ? " cried a 
hearty, gay voice, that echoed like a bugle in the stillness of the 
room. ** Tlie doctor said you were getting well, and I deter- 
mined I would not be kept out any longer. "What in the world 
do tlicy bani:-h me for ? I am the best nurse in the universe, 
strong as a lion, and wakeful as an owl. What do they shut 
you up in this dark room for ? — just to give you the blues ! — 
It is all nonsense. I am going to })ut back these curtains, and 
let in some light, — you will become etiolated. I want to see 
how you look." 

Dasliing at tiie curtains, slie tossed two of them back as high 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 207 

as she could throw them, letting in a flood of sunshine to my 
weak and dazzled ejes. 

^ Do n't! don't I '* I entreated, getting dreadfully nervous 
and agitated ; ^ I cannot bear it, — indeed I cannot" 

" Yes you can ; you will be better in a moment, — it is only 
coming out of darkness into marvellous light, — a sudden change, 
that is all. You do look white, — white, delicate, and sweet as 
a water-lily. I have a great mind to invite Ernest up to see 
you, you look so interesting. He has been like a distracted 
man, a wandering Jew, an unlaid ghost, ever since you have 
been ilL And poor Richard Clyde comes every night to in- 
quire after you, with such a woebegone countenance. And 
that great, ugly, magnificent creature of a teacher, he has been 
too, — you certainly are a consequential little lady." 

Thus she rattled on, without dreaming of the martyrdom she 
was inflicting on my weakened nerves. 

*' I have no doubt you mean to be kind," said I, ready to 
cry from weakness and irritation ; " but if you will only drop 
the curtains and leave me, I will be so very gcatefuL" 

- There — the curtains are down. I am not going to speak 
another word — I am a perfect lamb — I will bathe your head 
with cologne, and put you to sleep nicely." 

Stepping across the room, as she thought, very softly, but 
making more noise than Edith would in a week, she seized a 
bottle of cologne, and coming close to the bedside, bent over 
me, so that her great, black eyes almost touched mine. Had 
they been a pair of pistols, I could not have recoiled with greater 
terror. 

" Do n't ! " again I murmured, — " I am very weak." 

^ Hush ! I am going to put you to sleep." 

Pouring the cologne in her hand, till it dripped all over the 
countcrf)ane and pillow, she deluged m^, liair, and patted my 
forehead as she would a colt's that she wanted to stand still. 
In mule despair I submitted to her tender ttiercies, certain I 
should die, if some one did not come to my relief, when tho 
door softly opened, and Mrs. Linwood entered. 

^ Heaven be praised," thought I, — I had not strength to say 



208 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

it. Toars of weariness and vexation were mingling with tho 
drops with which she had saturated my hair. 

" Margaret," said 'Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of serious dis- 
pleasure, " what have you been doing ? I left her in a sweet 
sleep, and now I find her wan, tearful, and agitated. You will 
worry her into a relapse." 

" All she needs now is cheerful company, I am sure," she 
answered demurely 5 " you all make her so tender and baby- 
like, she never will have any strength again. I've been as 
soft as a cooing dove. Dr. Harlowe would have been delighted 
with me." 

** You fjinst go, Margaret, indeed you must. You may think 
yourself a dove, but others have a different opinion." 

" Going, going, gone ! " she cried, giving me a vehement kiss 
and vanishing. 

The consequence of this energetic visit was a relapse ; and 
Dr. Harlowe was as angry as his nature admitted when he 
learned the cause. 

" That wild-cat must not remain here," said he, shaking his 
head. *' She will kill my gentle patient Where did you find 
her, Mrs. Linwood? From what menagerie has she broken 
loose ? " 

" She is the daughter of an early and very dear friend of 
mine," ro])lied Mrs. Linwood, smiling; "a very original and 
indci)endcnt young lady, I grant she is." 

" What in the world did you bring her here for ? " asked tho 
doctor bhmtly ; " I intend to chain her, while my child is sick." 

" She wished to make a visit in the country, and I thought 
her wild good-humor would be a counterpoise to the poetiy 
and romance of Grandison Place." 

" You have other more attractive and tractable guests. You 
will not object to my depriving you for a short time of her. 
May I invite her home with me ? " 

'' Certainly, — but she will not accept the invitation. She is 
not acquainted with Mrs. Harlowe." 

"That makes no diflxjrence, — she will go with me, I am 
positive." 




ERNEST LIN WOOD. 209 

Thcj conversed in a low tone in one of the window recesses, 
bot I heard what they said ; and when Mrs. Linwood afterwards 
(old me that Meg the Dauntless had gone off with the doctor 
in high glee, I w^as inexpressibly relieved, for I had conceived 
AD ancon(|uerable terror of her. There was other company in 
the house, as Edith had prophesied, but in a mansion so large 
and so admirably arranged, an invalid might be kept perfectly 
quiet without interfering with the social enjoyment of others. 

I was slowly but surely recovering. At night Edith had 
her haq) placed in the upper piazza, and sang and played some 
of her sweetest and most soothing strains. Another voice, too, 
mingled at times with the breeze-like swelling of the thrilling 
chords, and a hand whose master-touch my spirit recognized, 
swept the trembling strings. 

How long it seemed since I had stood with htm under the 
&hado of the broad elm-tree ! With what fluctuating emotions 
I looked forward to meeting him again I 

At length the doctor pronounced me able to go down stairs. 

" I lun going to keep the wild-cat till you are a little strong- 
er,'' he said. ** She has made herself acquainted with the whole 
neighborliooil, and keeps us in a state of i>erpetual mirth and 
excitement. What do you think she has done ? She has 
actually made Mr. Kegiilus escort her on horseback into the 
country, and says she is resolved to captivate him." 

I could not help laughing at the idea of my tall, awkward 
master, a knight-errant to this queen of the amazons. 

''How would you like to be supplanted by her?** he mis- 
chievou>ly asked. 

*• As an assistant teacher ? " 

*• A«5 an assistant for life. Poor Regulus ! he was quite sick 
durin;^ your absence ; and when I Jiccused him of being in love, 
the siinple-hoarted creature confessed the fact * and owned tho 
soft im|M\ichincnt.* I really feel very sorry for him. He has 
a stupendous heart, and a magnificent brain. You ought to 
liave treated him better. He would be to you a tower of 
strength in the day of trouble. Little girl, you ought to be 
prr>u<l of puch a conquest." 

18* 



210 ERNEST lUNWOOD. 

" It filled me with sorrow and shame," I answered, " and had 
he not himself hetrayed the secret, it never would have been 
known. It seemed too deep a humiliation for one whom I eo 
much respected and revered, to bow a supplicant to me. Too 
do not know how unhappy it made me." 

" You must get hardened to these things, Gabriella. As yoa 
seem to be quite a dangerous young lady, destined to do great 
havoc in the world, it will not do to be too sensitive on the 
subject. But remember, you must not dispose of your heart 
without consulting me. And at any rate, wait three years longer 
for your judgment to mature." 

The conscious color rose to my check. He took my hand, 
and placed his Angers on my throbbing pulse. 

" Too quick, too quick," said he, looking gravely in my face. 
" This will never do. When I bring the wild-cat back, I mean 
to carry you off. It will do you good to stay a while with mj 
good, methodical, uuromantic wife. I can take you round to 
visit my patients with me. I have a new buggy, larger than 
the one in which we had such a famous ride together." 

The associations connected with that ride were so sad, I 
wished he had not mentioned it ; yet the conversation* had dom* 
me good. Jt kept me from dwelling too exclusively on one 
cngrossinf^ subject. 

** Kow give me your ann," said the doctor, " and let me have 
the privilege of escorting you down stairs." 

As we descended, he put his arm round me, for I was weaker 
than he thought I was, and my knees bent under me. 

'* AVe doctors ought not to have jealous wives, my dear, ought 
we ? My dear, good woman has not one particle of jealousy 
in her composition. She never looks af^er my heart; but keeps 
a wonderfully sharp eye on my head and feet A very sensi- 
ble person, ]\rrs. liar lo we is." 

There was intentional kindness in this apparent levity. He 
saw I was agitated, and wished to divert my thoughts. Per- 
haps he read more deeply than I imagined, for those who seem 
to glance lightly on the surface of feeling only, often penetrate 
to its doptlis. 




RRNEST LINWOOD. 211 

The drowiDg-room was divided by folding doors, wbich were 
seldom closed, and in the four comers of each division were 
crimson lounges, of luxurious and graceful form. Company 
generallj gathered in the front part, but the backroom was 
equally pleasant, as it opened into the flower-garden through a 
balcony shaded by vines. 

^ Come in here, and rest awhile,'' said the doctor, leading me 
into the back parlor; ^it will be a pleasant surprise to Mrs. 
Linwood. I did not tell her I was going to bring you down." 

As we entered, I saw Ernest Linwood half reclining on a 
lounge with a book in his hand, which hung listlessly at his side. 
As he looked up, his pale face lighted suddenly and brilliantly 
as burning gas. He rose, threw down his book^ came hastily 
forward, took my hand, and drawing it from the doctor's arm, 
twined it round his own." 

*• How well you look ! " he exclaimed. " Dr. Harlowe, we 
owe you ten thousand thanks." 

'^ This is a strange way of showing it," said the doctor, look- 
ing round him with a comical expression, ^ to deprive me of my 
companion, and leave me as lonely as Simon Stylites on the top 
of his pillar." 

Mrs. Linwood and Edith, who had seen our entrance, came 
forward and congratulated me on my convalescence. It was the 
first time I had ever been ill, and the pleasure of being released 
from durance was like tliat of a weary child let loose from 
school. I was grateful and happy. The assurance I received 
from the first glance of Ernest, that what his mother had prom- 
ised to reveal had made no change in his feelings ; that the 
love, which I had almost begun to think an illusion of my own 
brain, was a real existing passion, filled me with unspeakable 
joy. The warnings of Mrs. Linwood had no power to weaken 
my faith and hope. Had she not told me that her love had 
died ? 1 felt that mine was immortal. 

The impression made by my mother's sad history was still 
too fresh and deep, and too much of the languor of indisposition 
still clung to me to admit of my being gay ; but it was pleasant 
to hear the cheerful laugh and lively conversation, showing that 



212 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

the tide of social life ran clear and high. Several new gaesti 
had arrived, whom I had not seen before, to whom I was intro- 
duced ; but as Dr. Harlowe commanded me to be a good girl 
and remain quietly in a corner, a passing introduction limited 
the intercourse of the evening. 

Just as the doctor was taking leave, a loud, mefrj ha, ha! 
came leaping up the steps, followed by the amazonian form of 
Madge Wildfire, leaning on the arm of Mr. Regulus. 

^^ Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! " exclaimed Er- 
nest. 

'' Shade of Esculapius ! " cried the doctor, recoiling fix)m the 
threshold. 

" Glad to see me ? I know you are. Taken you all by 
storm. Found tliis gentleman wandering like a troubled spirit 
by the way-side, and pressed him into service. I shall make a 
gallant knight of him yet. My dear soul ! " she cried, spying 
me out and rushing towards me, " I am so glad to see you here, 
escaped from the ruthless hands of the doctor. I never saw 
sucli a d(;spot in my life, except oiie ; '* here she looked laugh- 
ingly and deliantly at Ernest, — " he would out-Nero Nero him- 
self, if he had the opportunity." 

" U I were the autocrat of Russia I would certainly exercise 
the right of banishment," lie answered quietly. 

During this sportive encounter, Mr. Kegulua came up to 
greet me. I had not seen him since our memorable inter>*iew 
in the academy, and his sallow face glowed with embarrassment. 
I rose to meet him, anxious to show him every mark of respect 
and esteem. I asked him to take a seat on the sofa by me, 
and ventured to congratulate him on the exceedingly entertain- 
ing acquaintance he hail made. 

** A very cxtraordinaiy young lady," he cried, " amazingly 
merrv, and somewhat bold. I had not the most remote idea of 
coHiing hero, when J left home ; but suddenly I found her arm 
linkeil in mine, and was told that I must escort her noktu 
volrns." 

" Indeed ! I thought you came to inquire after my health, 
and \va< feeling so grateful ! " 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 213 

^ I did not know I should have the pleasure of seeing youj and 
I did not hope you would welcome me with so much cordiali- 
ty. I have made many inquiries af^r you ; indeed, I have 
scarcely thought of any thing else since you were ill. You look 
pale, Gabriella. Are you sure you are quite well, my child ? " 

The old endearing epithet I It touched me. 

^I do not feel strong enough to move Mount Atlas, but 
well enough to enjoy the society of my friends. I never ap- 
preciated it so highly before." 

*^ You have no idea how I miss you," he said, taking my fan 
and drawing his thumb over it, as if he were feeling the edge 
of his ferula. ^ The season of summer lingers, but the flowers 
no longer bloom for me. The birds sing, but their notes have 
lost their melody. My perception of the beautiful has grown 
dim, but the remembrance of it can never fade. I never knew 
before what the pleasures of memory truly were." 

" I recollect a copy you once set me, Mr. Begulus, — * Sweet 
b the memory of absent friends,' — I thought it such a charm- 
ing one ! " 

^ Do you remember that ? " he asked, with a delighted coun- 
tenance. 

*• Yes ! I remember all the copies you ever set me. Teach- 
ers should be very careful what sentiments they write, for they 
are never forgotten. Don't you recollect how all the pupils 
once laughed at a mistake in punctuation of mine ? The copy 
was, * Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor.' As 
tlie line was not quite filled, you added GahrieUoy afler making 
a full jKjriod. I forgot the stop and wrote, * Hate not, but pity 
the wicked, as well as the poor Gabriella.' The ridicule of the 
Mrholar^ taught me the importance of punctuation. Our mis- 
takes are our best lessons, afler all." 

" And do you remember these trifles ? " he repeated. ** How 
strange ! It shows you have the heart of a child stilL I love 
to hear you recall them." 

^ I could fill a volume with these reminiscences. I believe I 
will write one, one of these days, and you shall be the hero." 

A merry altercation at the door attracted our attentioo. Dr. 



214 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Ilarlowc was endeavoring to persuade Madge to go back with 
him, but she strenuously refused. 

^' I never could stay more than ten days at a time in one 
place in my life. Besides, I have worn out my welcome, 1 
know I have. Your house is not new. It jars too much when 
I walk. I saw Mrs. llarlowe looking ruefully at some cracked 
glass and china, and then at me, as much as to say, ^ It is aU 
your doings, you young romp.* " 

" Very likely," cried the doctor^ laughing heartily, " but it 
only makes me more anxious to secure you. You arc a safety- 
valve in the house. All my misdemeanors escape unreproved 
in the presence of your superior recklessness." 

I never saw any one enjoy a jest more than Dr. Ilarlowc. 
lie really liked the dashing and untamable Madge. lie was 
fund of young companions ; and though his wife was such a 
superior woman, and such an incomparable housekeeper, there 
was nothing very exhilarating about her. 

*' I can't go," said Madge ; " I must stay and take care of 
Gabriella." 

^' W you play any of your wild pranks on her again," said the 
doctor, ** it were better for you that you had never be<.»n bom.** 

With this threat he departed ; and it seemed as if a dozen 
p('0]>lc had been added to the household in the person of the 
dauntless ]Meg. I never saw any one with such a How of ani- 
mal spirits, with so much oxygen in their composition. I should 
tliiiik the vital principle in such a constitution would bum out 
sooner than in others, like a iiame fed by alcohol. She was 
older than myself, and yet had no more apparent reflection 
than a child of live years old. It was impossible to make her 
aiiLH y. The gravest rebuke, the most cutting sarcasm, were rc- 
eeivrd wiili a merry twinkle of the eye or a rich swell of 
laughter. She was bold, masculine^ wild, and free, and I 
feared her as much as I would the wild-cat, after whom the 
doetor had christened her, — yet there was something about her 
that 1 liked. It was probably the interest she professed in me, 
which must have been genuine. It was impossible for her to 
allect any thing. 




XSMS8T LINWOOD. S16 

Wbo would dream of any one iq^ortiiig with such a man as 
Mr. Regulus ? Yet she treated him exactly as if he were a 
great hoy. He had paid us his parting salutations^ and was 
half-way down the steps before she was aware of his intended 
departure. 

^ You are not going so soon, indeed you are not,** she ex- 
claimed, running afler him, seizing his hat, and setting it jauntOy 
<m her own head. Her abundant hair prevented it from falling 
over her face. ^ I brought you here to stay all the evemng, 
and stay you must and shall. What do you want to go back to 
jour musty old bachelor's room for, when there is stich delig^ 
lul company here ? " 

Taking hold of his arm and whirling him briskly round, she 
led him back into the parlor, laughing and triumphant 

She k)oked so saucy, so jaunty, so fiiU of nerve and adven- 
ture, with the large hat pitched on one side of her head, I could 
not help saying, — 

^ What a pity she were not a man 1 " 

Mr. Regulus did not appear as awkward as might be sup- 
posed. There was a latent spark of fun and firolic in his large 
brain, to which her wild hand applied the match ; and though I 
know he felt the disappointment of his affections sorely, deeply, 
be yielded himself to her assault with tolerable grace and readi- 
ness 

Supper was always an unceremonious meSi, sent round on 
waiters, fn»n a round table in the back parlor, at which Mrs. 
Linwood presided. Gentlemen took theiir cups standing or 
walking, just as it happened ; and ladies, too, though they were 
geoerally seated. Ernest drew a light table to the lounge 
where I sat ; and sitting by me, said, as I was an invalid, I 
should be peculiarly favored. 

^ Methinks she is not the only favored one," said the sweet 
voice of Edith, as she floated near. 

^ There is room for you, dear Edith,** said I, moving closer to 
the arm of the sofa, and leaving a space for her between us. 

^ Room on the so&, Edith,** added he, moving towards me, 
and making a space for her on his right, ^ and tenfold room in 
my heart** 



21G ERNEST L I N W O O D . 

I le took her hand and drew her do^vn to hia side. 

" Tliis is as it should be," he said, looking from one to the 
otlier witli a nidiant countenance. " Thus would I ever bind 
to my heart the two loveliest, dearest, best." 

Edith bent her head, and kissed the hand which held hers. 
As she looked up I saw that her eyes were glistening. 

'' What would mamma say ? " she asked, trying to conceal her 
emotion. '* Surely there can be none dearer and better than 
she is." 

*' Xay, Edith," said he, passing his arm tenderly round her 
Wilis t ; *• you might as well say, if I singled out two bright, es- 
pecial stars from th(? firmament, that I did not think the moon 
fair or excellent. The love I bear my mother is so exalted by 
reverence, it sUinds apart by itself like the queen of night, 
Hcrene jmd holy, moving in a distinct and lofly sphere. There 
is one glory of the sun, Edith, and another glory of the moon, 
and one star diftereth from another in glory. Yet they are all 
glorious in themselves, and all proclaim the goodness and glory 
of the Creator." 

" I have heard it said," observed Edith, in a low, tremulons 
tone, " tliat when love takes possession of the heart, the natural 
atfections have comparatively little strength ; that it is to them as 
is the ocean to its tributaries. I know nothing of it by exi>eri- 
eiice, nor do I wish to, if it has power to diminish the filial and 
sisterly tenderness which constitutes my chief joy." 

'^ My dear Edith, it is not so. Every pure and generous af- 
fection expands the heart, and gives it new capacities for loving. 
Have you not heard of heaven, — *the more angels the more 
room ? ' So it is with the human heart. It is elastic, and en- 
lar;rcs with everv lawful claimant to be admitted into its sane- 
tuary. It is true there is a love which admits of no rivalry;** 
hen; his eye turned involuntarily to me, " which enshrines but 
one object, which dwells in the inner temple, the angel of 
angj'ls. But other atfections do not become weaker in conse- 
quence of its strength. We may not see the fire-flame bum as 
brightly when the sun shines upon it, but the flame is buming 
still." 




SRNE8T LINWOOD. 217 

^ Gabriella does not speak," said Edith, with an incredulous 
wave of her golden locks. ^ Tell me, Grabriella, are his words 
true?" 

^ I am not a very good metaphysician," I answered, ^ but I 
should think the heart very narrow, that could accommodate 
only those whom Nature placed in it. It seems to me but a 
refined species of selfishness." 

The color crimsoned on Edith's fair cheek. I had forgotten 
what she had said to me of her own exclusive afiection. I 
jjmpathized so entirely in his sentiments, expressed with such 
beautiful enthusiasm, I forgot every thing els^ The moment I 
had spoken, memory rebuked my transient oblivion. She must 
believe it an intentional sarcasm. How could I be so careless 
of the feelings of one so gentle and so kind ? 

^ I know /am selfish," she said. *^ I have told you my weak- 
ness, — sin it may be, — and I deserve the reproach." 

^ You cannot think I meant it as such. You know I could 
not. I had forgotten what I have heard you previously utter. 
I was thinking only of the present. Forgive me, Edith, for 
being so thoughtless and impulsive ; for being so selfish myself." 

^I am wrong," said Edith, ingenuously. '^I suppose con- 
science applied the words. Brother, you, who are the cause of 
the ofience, must make my peace." 

^ It is already made," answered I, holding out my hand to 
meet hers ; ^ if you acquit me of intentional wrong, I ask no 
more." 

As our hands united before him, he clasped them both in one 
of his own. 

"A triune band," said he, earnestly, "that never must be 
broken. Edith, Gabriella, remember this. Love each other 
now, love each other forever, even as I love ye both." 

I was sensitive and childish from recent indisposition, or I 
should have had more sclf-contsol. I could not prevent the 
tears from rushing to my eyes and stealing do?m my cheeks. 
As we were sitting by ourselves, in a part of the room less 
brilliantly lighted than the rest, and as we all conversed in a 

19 



218 EllNKST LIN WOOD. 

low voice, this little scene was not conspicuous, though it might 
have possibly been observed. 

Tliose in the front room seemed exceedingly merry. Madge 
bad placed a table before herself and Mr. Regulus, in imitatioo 
of Krnest, and had piled his plate with quantities of cake, as 
lii^h as a pyramid. A gay group surrounded the table, that 
seemed iloatiiig on a tide of laughter ; or rather making an 
eddy, in ' which their spirits were whirling.' 

As soon as supper was over, she told Mr. Regulus to lead 
her to the piano, as she was literally dying to play. There 
was no instrum^ at Dr. Harlowe's but a jew's-harp, and the 
tongue of that was broken. As she seated herself at the piano, 
Mr. Keguhis reached forward and took up a violin which was 
lying upon it. 

" Do you i)lay ? " she asked eagerly. 

** 1 used to play a good deal when a boy, but that was a long 
time ago," he answered, drawing the bow across the strings 
with no unskilful hand. 

" D(fliglitful, cliarming ! " she exclaimed. " Can you play 
* Comcy haste to the wedding ? ' " 

lie replied by giving the inspiring air, whicli she accompa- 
nied in her wild, exciting manner, laughing and shaking her 
head with irrepressible glee. I was astonished to see my 
di^riutled tutor thus lending himself for the amusement of the 
evening. 1 sliould have thought as soon of Jupiter playing a 
danein.G: tune, as Mr. Kegulus. But he not only played well 
1r* seemed to enjoy it. I was prepared now, to see him on the 
fluor daneing witli Madge, though I sincerely hoped he would 
not permit himself to be exhibited in that manner. Madge 
was resolved upon this triumph, and called loudly to Edith to 
com(3 an<l lake her place at tiic instrument, and play the liveli- 
est wahz in tlie univei*sc for her and Mr. Regulus. 

" Tliank you. Miss Melville," said he, laying down his violin 
and resuming his usual grave and dignified manner, " I am no 
daneing bear." 

" Conic, ]\Ir. Regulus, I have no doubt you dance as charm- 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 219 

iDgly as yoa play. Besides, you would not be so ungallant as 
to refuse a lady's request" 

^ Not a Iady4ik6 request,** he answered, with a shrewd cast 
of the eye under his beetling brows. 

This sarcasm was received with acclamation ; but Meg lifted 
ber brow as dauntless as ever and laughed as loudly. 

I began to feel weary of mirth in which I could not sympa- 
thize. Mrs. Linwood came to me, and saying I looked pale 
and wan, insisted upon my retiring. To this I gladly assented. 
The little misunderstanding between Edith and myself weighed 
heavily on my spirits, and I longed to be alone. 

Just as we were crossing the hall of entrance, Richard Clyde 
came in. He greeted me with so much feeling, such earnest, un- 
affected pleasure, yet a pleasure so chastened by sensibility, 
I realized, perhaps for the first time, the value of the heart I 
had rejected. 

" You have been ill, Grabriella," said he, retaining for a mo- 
ment the hand he had taken. ^ You look pale and languid. 
Y'ou do not know how much your friends have suffered on your 
account, or how grateful they feel for your convalesence." 

*^ I did not thuik I was of so much consequence," I replied. 
^ It is well to be sick now and then, so as to be able to appre- 
ciate the kindness of friends." 

** You must suffer us to go now, Richard," said Mrs. Linwood, 
moving towards the staircase; "you will find merry company 
in the parlor ready to entertain you. As Gabriclla is no longer 
a prisoner, you will have future opportunities of seeing her." 

^ I must embrace them soon," said he, sadly. " I expect to 
leave tliis place before long, — my friends, and my country." 

" You, Richard ? " I exclaimed. Then I remembered the re- 
marks I had heard on commencement day, of his being sent to 
Europe to complete his education. I regretted to lose the 
champion of my childhood,* the friend of my youth, and my 
countenance expressed my emotion. 

^ I liave a great deal to say to you, Gabriclla," said he, in a 
low tone. ** May I see you to-morrow ? " 

^ Certainly, — that is, I think, I hope so.** A glance that 



220 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

flashed on mc from the doorway arrested my stammering tongue. 
Ernest was standing there, observing the interview, and the 
dark passion of which his mether had warned me cloaded his 
brow. Snatching my hand from Richard, I bade him a has^ 
good-night, and ascended the stairs, with a prophetic heart 

Yet, while I felt the shadow on his brow stealing darkly over 
me, I repeated to myself, — 

" The keenest pangs the wretched find. 
Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind, 
The waste of feelings onemployed." 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

The interview with Richard Clyde the next day, was a pain- 
folly agitating one. I had no conception till then, how closely 
and strongly love and hope had twined their fibres round him ; 
or how hard would be the task of rending them firom him. Why 
ODuld I not appreciate the value of his frank, noble, and confid- 
ing nature ? It may be because we had been children together, 
and that familiarity was unfavorable to the growth of love in 
one of my poetic nature. I miut look up. The doud crowned 
diff did not appall my high-reaching eye. 

^ I shall not see you again, Gabriella," said he, as he wrung 
my hand in parting. ^ I shall not see you again before my de- 
parture, — I would not for worlds renew the anguish of this 
moment I do not reproach you, — you have never deceived 
me. My own hopes have been building a bridge of flowers over 
a dark abyss. But, by the Heaven that hears me, Grabriella, 
the keenest pang I now experience is not for my own loss, it ia 
the dread I feel for you.*' 

*^ Not one word more, Richard, if you love me. I have been 
tender of your feelings, — respect mine. There is but one thing 
on earth I prize more than your friendship. Let me cherish 
that for the sacred memory of auld long tyne/* 

^ Farewell, then, Gabriella, best and only beloved ! May the 
hand wither that ever falls too heavily on that truing heart, 
should we never meet again 1 " 

Uc drew me suddenly closely to him, kissed me passiona te ly, 
and was gone. 

^ Ilad you confided in me fully," said Mrs. lanwood, in 

to me afterwards of Richard, ^ I should nevor have 

<tti) 



222 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

advised a correspondunce which must have strengthoncd his it- 
tiichment. Ilavhig the highest opinion of his principles and 
disposition, and believing you regarded him with modest affect 
tion, I urged this intercourse as a binding link between you. 
You must have perceived my wishes on this subject." 

" If I have erred, it was from mistaken delicacy. I thought 
I had no right to betray an unrctumed afiection. It was not 
from a want of confidence in you." 

" If you could have loved Hichard, it would have been well 
for you, my dear Gabriella ; but I know the heart admits of no 
coercion, and least of all a heart like yours. I no longer worn, 
for it is in vain ; but I would counsel and instruct. If you do 
become the wife of my son, you will assume a responsibility 
as sacred as it is deep. Not alone for your happiness do I 
tremble, O Gabriella, — I fear, — I dread, for him." 

" Oh ! Mrs. Linwood, when I love him so exclusively, bo de- 
votedly ; when I feel that I must love him forever — ** 

" It is the very exclusiveness and strength of your devotion 
that I fear. You will love him too well for your own peace,—- 
too well for his good. Far better is a rational, steadfast attach- 
ment, that neither rises above the worth of the objccti nor 
sinks below it, than the two great extremes, idolatry and indif- 
ference. The lii'st is a violation of the commands of God,— 
the last, of the rights of man. Remember, my child, that it is 
not by the exhibition of idolatrous affection, thatu wife secures 
a husl)aii(rs happiness. It is by patient continuance in well- 
doing, that she works out the salvation of her wedded peace. 
Sit down by me, Gabriella ; draw up your work-table ; for one 
can listen best when their hands are busy. I have a great deal 
that I wish to say, and I cannot talk as well with your eyes 
b(?nt so earnestly on me." 

I obeyecl her without trepidation. I felt the need of her 
guiding counsels, and resolved to lay them up in my heart, and 
make them the rule and guide of my life. 

"When a young girl marries a man whom she has been 
taught to believe peifection," continued Mrs. Linwood, "and 
after marriage discovers her golden idol to be an image of wood 




SKMBST LINWOOD. 223 

Bud dMjj she may be permitted to sit down and weep a while 
over her Taniahed dreams. Bat when she knows the imper- 
fections of him she loTes ; when she knows thej are of a nature 
to tiy, as with seTenfold heat, the strength and parity of her 
affection ; when with this conviction she breathes her wedded 
▼owsy she has no right to upbraid him. She has walked with 
open eyes into the famaccy and she must not shrink froai the 
flames. She most fold over her woman's heart the wings of 
an angeL She most look ap to God, and be silent** 

^ When innocent of blame, sarely she should defend herself 
firam accusation,'* cried I. 

** Certainly, — in the ^irit of gentleness and Christian love. 
But she must not murmur; she must not complain* But it is 
not the accusation that admits of defence, the arrow that flies at 
noonday, that is most to be feared. It is the cold, inscrutable 
l^ce, the chilled and altered manner, the suspicion that walk- 
eth in darkness, — it is these that try the strength of woman's 
love, and gnaw with slow but certain tooth the cable-chain that 
holds the anchor of her fidelity. These are the evil spirits 
which prayer and fitsting alone can cast out. They may fly 
before the uplifted eye and bended knee, but never before the 
flash of anger or the word of recrimination.'' 

** What a solemn view you give me of married lifel " I ex- 
claimed, while the work dropped from my hands. ^What 
fearful responsibilities you place before me, — I tremble, I 
dare not meet them." 

^ It is not too late, — the irrevocable vow is not yet breathed, 
— the path is not yet entered. J£ the mere description of 
duties makes you turn pale with dread, what will the reality 
be ? I do not seek to terrify, but to convince. I received you 
as a precious charge from a dying mother, and I vowed over 
her ffrvive to love, protect, and cherish you, as my own daugh- 
ter. I saw the peculiar dangers to which you were liable from 
your ardent genius and exquisito sensibility, and I suffered yoo 
to pass through a discipline which my wealth made unneces- 
sary, and which you have nobly borne. I did not wish my son 
to love you, not because you were the child of obscurity, but 



224 ERNEST LINVrOOD. 

becaiit-c I had constituted myself the guardian of jour happi- 
ness, and I feared it would be endangered by a union with hinL 
How dear is your happiness to me, — how holy I deem the 
charge I have assumed, — you may know by my telling you 
this. Never mother idolized a son as I do Ernest. He is pre- 
cious as my heart's best blood, — he is the one idol that comes 
between nie and my God. My love is more intense for the 
anxiety I feel on his account. If I could have prevented his 
loving; — but how could I, in the constant presence of an 
object so formed to inspire all the romance of love ? I knew 
the serpent slept in the bottom of the fountain, and when the 
waters were stirred it would wake and uncoil. Gabriclla ! " she 
added, turning towards me, taking both hands in hers, and look- 
ing me in the face with her clear, eloquent^ dark gray eyes, 
" you may be the angel commissioned by Providence to work 
out the earthly salvation of my son, to walk with him through 
the iler}' furnace, to guard him in the lion's den, which his own pas- 
sions may create. If to the love that hopeth all, the faith that 
believeth all, you add the charity that endnreth all, miracles 
may follow an influence so exalted, and, I say it with reverence, 
so divine." 

It is impossible to give but a faint idea of the power of Mr*. 
Liiiwood's language and manner. There was no vehemence, 
no gesticulation. Her eye did not fliish or sparkle ; it burned 
with a steady, penetrating light. Her voice did not rise in 
tone, but it gave utterance to her words in a full, deep stream 
of thought, inexhaustible and clear. I have heanl it said that 
slie talked "like a book," and so she did, — like the book of 
hiiivenly wisdom. Her sentiments were "apples of gold in 
pi<'tures of silver," and worthy to be enshrined in a diamond 
casket. 

As I listened, I caught a portion of her sublime spirit, and 
felt equal to the duties which I had a short time l>eforc re- 
coiled from contemplating. 

" I am very young and inexperienced," I answered, " and too 
ai)t to be governed by the impulses of the present moment. I 
dare not promise what I may be too weak to perform ; but. 




BBNS8T LINWOOD. Si5 

iitil wixlain, an that a feeble giri, Btrengthened and inspired 
IcKfey and leaning humbly on an Almighty ann, can do^ I 
dige myself to do. In looking forwaid to the fatarOy I hftre 
oght almost exclosively (^ being ever near the one beloved 
BdL, liying in the sunshine of his smile, and drinking in the 
BC of his voioe. Life seemed an elysian dream, from which 
e and sorrow most be for ever banished* Yon have ronsed 
to nobler views, and given existence a nobler aim. I blush 
my selfishness. I will henceforth think less of being happy 
self, than of making others happy; less of happineu than 
)i; and eveiy sacrifice that principle requires shall be made 
tity as well as holy, by love.'* 

'Only cherish such feelings, my child,'' said Mrs. Linwood, 
nnly embracing me, ^and you will be the daug^iter of my 
lice, as well as my adoption. My blessing, and the blessing 
approving God, will be yours. The woman, who limits her 
bition to the triumphs of beauty and the infiuence of personal 
dnation, receives the retribution of her folly and her sin in 

coldness and alienation of her husband, and the indifference, 
not the contempt of the world. She, whose highest aim is 
ellectual power, will make her home like the eyrie (^ the 
;le, lofly, but bleak. While she, whose affections alone are 

foundation of her happiness, will find that the nest of the 

re, though pleasant and downy in the sunshine, will furnish 

shelter from the fierce storms and tempestuous winds of 



»» 



'Oh, Mrs. Linwood! Is domestic happiness a houselesa 
oderer ? Has it no home on earth ? ** 
' Yes, my love, in the heart of the woman whose highest 
I is the glory of Grod, — whose next, the excellence and hap- 
eas of her husband ; who considers her talents, her afieo* 
IS, and her beauty as gifts from the Almighty hand, for whose 
t she must one day render an account; whose heart is a 
iser where holy incense is constantly ascending, perfuming 
1 sanctifying the atmosphere of home. Such is the woman 
pleaseth the Lord. Such, I trust, will be my beloved 
briella.'' 



226 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

I^y conversations like these, almost daily renewed^ did tlu 
admirable, higb-minded, and God-fearing woman endeaTor to 
prepare me for the exalted position to which love had nosed 
me. Tbis was a happy period of my life. The abisence of 
Richard Clyde, though a source of regret, was a great blessing, 
as it removed the most prominent object of jealousy from 
Ernest's path. An occasional cloud, a sudden coldness, and an 
unaccountable reserve, sometimes reminded me of the danger- 
ous passion whose shadow too oflcn follows the footsteps of 
love. But in the retirement of rural life, surrounded by the 
sweet, pure influences of nature, the best elements of character 
were called into exerci^sC. 

The friends whom Mrs. Linwood gathered around her were 
not the idle devotees of fashion, — the parasites of wealth; 
but intelligent, literar}' people, whose society was a pouree of 
imj)rovement as well as pleasure. Sometimes, circumsitances of 
commanding character forced her to receive as guests tbosc 
whom her judgment would never have selected, as in the case 
of jMiidge Wildfire; but in general it was a distinction to be 
invited to Grandison Place, whose elegant hospitalities were the 
bojist of tlie town to which it belonged. 

The only drawback to my happiness was the pensiveness that 
himg like a soft cloud over the spirits of Edith. She was still 
kind and iiflTectiuniitcj to me ; but the sweet unreserve of former 
in((M'course was gone. I had come between her and her 
broth(T*s heart. I was the sliadow on her dial of flowers, that 
made their bloom wither. I never walked with Ernest alone 
w itliout fearing to givr her pain. I never sat with him on the 
scat beneath the elm, in the starry eventide, or at moonlight's 
hour, without feeUng that she followed us in secret with a sad- 
do in m1 glance. 

At first, whenever he came to me to walk with him, I would 
say, — 

- Wait till I go for Edith." 

" Very well," he would answer, " if there is nothing in yoitf 
heart that pleads for a nearer communion than that which we 




BBNE8T LINWOOD. 2i7 

oj in the presence of others, a dearer interchange of thought 
I feeling, let Edith, let the whole world come." 
' It is for her sake, not mine, I speak, — I cannot bear the 
t reproach of her loving eye I " 

* A sister^s affection must not be too exacting," was the reply. 
Jl that the fondest brother can bestow, I give to Edith ; but 
re are giAs she may not share, — an inner temple she can- 
enter, — reserved alone for you. Come, the flowers are 
sting their fragrance, the stars their lustre ! " 
Sow could I plead for Edith, after being silenced by such 
;uments ? And how could I tell her that I had interceded 
her in vain ? I never imagined before that a sister's love 
tld be jealous ; but the same hereditary passion which was 
nsmitted to his bosom through a father's blood, reigned in 
V, though in a gentler fomu 

Bvery one who has studied human nature must have observed 
dominant family traits, as marked as the attributes of difler- 
; trees and blossoms, — traits which, descending from parent 
children, individualize them from the great family of man- 
td. In some, pride towers and spreads like the great grove 
e of India, the branches taking root and forming trunks 
ich put forth a wealth of foliage, rank and unhealthy. In 
lers, obstinacy plants itself like a rock, which the winds and 
ves of opinion cannot move. In a few, jealousy coils itself 
:h lengthening fold, which, like the serpent that wrapped it- 
f round Laocoon and his sons, makes parents and children its 
happy victims. 

And so it is with the virtues, which, thanks be to God, who 
teth the solitary in families, are also hereditary. How often 
we hear it said, — " She is lovely, charitable, and pious, — 
was her mother before her ; " " lie is an upright and honor- 
[e man, — he came from a noble stock." '* That youth has a 
rrud love of truth, — it is his best inheritance, — his father's 
rd was ecpiivalent to his bond." 

If this be true, it shows the duty of parents in an awfully 
nmanding manner. Let them rend out the eye that gives 
vk and distorted views of God and man. Lei them cat off 



228 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

the hand that offends and the foot that errs, rather than entaH 
on others evils, which all eternity cannot remedy. Better trans- 
mit to posterity the blinded eye, the maimed and halting foot, 
that knows the narrow path to eternal life, than the dark pas- 
sions that desolate earth, and wifit the soul for the joys of 
heaven. 




CHAPTER XXX. 

I HAVE now arrived at a period in my life, at which the nov- 
elist would pause, — believing the history of woman ceases to 
interest as soon as an accepted lover and consenting friends ap- 
pear ready to usher the heroine into the temple of Hymen. But 
there is a life within life^ which is never revealed till it is inter- 
twined with another's. In the depth of the heart there is a lower 
deep, which is never sounded save by the hand that wears the 
fcedding-ring. There is a talisman in its golden circle, more 
powerful than those worn by the genii of the East 

I love to linger among the beautiful shades of Grandison 
Place, to wander over its velvet lawn, its gravel walks, its wind- 
ing avenues, to gaze on the lovely valley its height commanded, 
whether in the intense lights and strong shadows of downward 
day, or the paler splendor and deeper shadows of moonlit night. 
I love those girdling mountains, — grand winding stairs of heaven, 
— on which my spirit has so oAen climbed, then stepping to the 
clouds, looked through their *^ golden vistas " into the mysteries 
of the upper world. 

O thou charming home of my youth! what associations 
cluster round thee ! Thy noble trees rustle their green leaves 
in the breezes of memory. Thy moonlight walks are trodden 
by invisible footsteps. Would I had never left thee, Paradise 
of my heart ! Would I had never tasted the fruit of the tree 
of knowledge, which, though golden to the eye, turns to ashes 
OQ the lips I 

When Ernest urged me to appoint a period for our marriage, 
I was startled — alarmed. I thought not of hastening to my 

20 (»^) 



230 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

destiny quite so soon. I was too young. I must wait at least 
two years before assuming the responsibilities of a wife. 

" Two years ! — two centuries I " he exclaimed. ** "Why 
should we wait ? I have wealth, which woos you to enjoy it 
I have arrived at the fulness of manhood, and you are in the 
rosetime of your life. Why should we wait? For circum- 
stances to divide, — for time to chill, — or death to destroy? 
No, no ; when you gave me your heart, you gave me yourself; 
and I claim you as my own, without formal scruples or umieces- 
sary delay." 

Mre. Linwood exerted all her eloquence with her son to in- 
duce him to defer the union at least one year, till I had seen 
something of the world, — till I was better acquainted with my 
own heart 

" Yes ! wait till she loses tlie freshness and simplicity that 
won mc, — the sweetness and ingenuousness that enchained 
me ! " he cried impetuously. " Wait till she has been flattered 
and spoiled by a vain and deceiving world ; till she learns to 
prize the admiration of many better than the true love of one; 
till she becomes that tinsel thing my soul abhors, a &lse and 
worldly woman. No ! give her to me now," he added, clasping 
me to his heart with irresistible tenderness and passion. " Give 
her to nie now, in the bloom of her innocence, the flower of her 
youth, and I will enshrine her in my heart as in a crystal vase, 
which they must break to harm her." 

The strong love and the strong will united were not to be op- 
posed. Mrs. Linwood was forced to yield ; and when once her 
consent was given, mine was supposed to be granted. She 
wished the wedding to be consummated in the city, in a style 
consistent with his splendid fortune, and then our rank in so- 
ciety ; and therefore proposed the first month in winter, when 
they usually took possession of their habitation in town- 
lie objected to this with all the earnestness of which he was 
master. It was sacrilege, he said, to call in a gazing world, to 
make a mockery of tlie holiest feelings of the heart, and to 
crush under an icy mountain of ceremony the spontaneous 
flowers of nature and of love. He detested fashionable crowds 




BBKE8T LINWOOD. 281 

on any occasion, and most of all on this. Let it be at Grandi- 
8on Place, the cradle of his love, in the glorious time of the 
harvest-moon, that mellow, golden season, when the earth 
wraps herself as the 

*' Sacred brido of heavon, 
• Worthy the passion of a God." 

So entirely did I harmonize with lum in his preference for 
Grandison Place, that I was willing the time should be antici- 
pated, for the sake of the retirement and tranquillity secured. 

Madge Wildfire had returned to the city, declaring that 
lovers were the most selfish and insipid people in the world,-— 
that she was tired of flirting with Ursa Major, as she called 
Mr. Regulus, —* tired of teazing Dr. Harlowe,— -tired of the 
country and of herself. 

The night before she left, she came to me in quite a subdued 
mood. 

^ I am really sorry you arc going to be married," she cried. 
^ If I were you, I would not put on chains before I had tasted 
the sweets of liberty. Only think, you have not come out yet, 
as the protegee of the rich, the aristocratic Mrs. Linwood* 
Wliat a sensation you would make in Boston next winter if you 
had sense enough to preserve your freedom. Ernest Linwood 
knows well enough what he is about, when he hastens the 
wedding so vehemently. He knows, if you once go into the 
world, you will be surrounded by admirers who may eclipse 
and supplant him. But I tell thee one thing, my dear creature, 
you will have no chance to shine as a belle, as the wife of 
Ernest If he docs not prove a second Bluebeard, my name is 
not Meg the Dauntless.** 

'^I detest a married belle," I answered with warmth. ^ The 
woman who aims at such a distinction is false, heartless, and 
unprincipled. I would bless the watching love that shielded 
me from a name so odious." 

' ^ It is a mighty fine thing to be loved, I suppose,^ said Meg 
with a resounding laugh, '^but I know nothing about it and 
never shall Mamma and Mrs. Linwood are grmtftimdB, 70a 



232 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

know, or have been ; and mamma thought it would be won- 
drous fine for young Miss Hopeful to captivate Mr. Splendidm. 
But he did not take, I did not suit his delicate nenres. WeU, 
I wish you joy, my precious soul. lie loves you, there is so 
doubt of that. He never sees, never looks at any one else. If 
you speak, he is all ear ; if you move, all eye. I wonder how 
it will be a year hence, — ha, ha ! " 

Her laugh grated on my nerves, but I concealed the irrita- 
tion it caused, for it was useless to be angry with Meg. She 
must have had a heart, for she was a woman, but the avenue 
to it was impervious. It was still an untravclled wilderness, and 
bold must be the explorer who dared to penetrate its laxuriant 
depths. 

Circumstances connected with the property bequeathed by 
his uncle, made it indispensable that Ernest should be in New 
York the coming winter ; and ho made arrangements to. pass 
our lirst bridal season in the great empire city. He wrote to a 
friend resident there, to engage a house and have it furnished 
for our reception. 

" For never," said he, " will I carry bride of mine, to make 
her home in a fiishionablc hotel. I would as soon plunge her 
in the roaring vortex on Norway's coast." 

" And must we be separated from your mother and Edith ? * 
I asked, trembling at the thought of being removed from Mrs. 
Lin wood's maternal counsels and cares ;** will they not share 
our bridal home ? '* 

" I would have the early days of our married life sacred 
even from their participation," he answered, with that eloquence 
of the eye which no woman's heart could resist. "I would 
have my wife learn to rely on me alone for happiness ; — to find 
in my boundless devotion, my unutterable love, an equivalent 
for all she is called upon to resign. If she cannot consent to 
this, no spark from heaven has kindled the flame of the altar ; 
the sacrifice is cold, and unworthy of acceptance.'* 

" For myself, I a^k nothing, wish for nothing but your com- 
panionship,'* I answered, with the fervor of truth and youth ; 
^' but I was thinking of them, whom I shall rob of a son and 
brother so inexpressibly dear." 




EBKE8T LINWOOD. 288 

^ We shall meet next summer in these lovely shades. We 
shall all be happy together once more. In the mean time, all the 
el^ancies and luxuries that love can imagine and wealth sup- 
ply shall be yoursy— * 

" Naj, dearest, nay, if thoa wooldst have me paint 
The home to which, if love folfilf ita prayers, 
This hand would lead thee, listen," — 

And taking me by the hand, he led me out into the beautiful 
avenue in which we had so often wandered, and continued, in the 
words of that charming play which he had read aloqd in the 
early days of our acquaintance, with a thrilling expressioii 
which none but himself could give — • 

'* We '11 have no friends 
That are not lorers ; no ambition, save 
To excel them all in love ; we 11 read no books 
That are not tales of love ; that we may smile 
To think how poorly eloquence of words 
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
And when night comes, amidst the breathless hearens. 
We 11 guess what star shall be our home when love 
Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 
Steals through the mists of alahaster lamps. 
And every air bo heavy with the sighs 
Of orange ^ves, and music from sweet lutes. 
And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth 
I' the midst of roses I " 

** Dost thou like the picture ? *' 

How could I help answering, in the words of the impassioned 
Pauline, — 

^ Was ever young imaginative girl wooed in strains of sweeter 
romance ? " 

Was there ever a fairer prospect of felicity, if love, pure, 
intense love, constitutes the happiness of wedded life ? 

I will not swell these pages by describing the village wonder 
and gossip, when it was known that the orphan girl of the old 
gray cottage was exalted to so splendid a destiny ; nor the oon- 

20* 



* • *« 



234 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

gratulations of friends ; the delight and exultation of Dr. Hai^ 
lowe, who said he had discovered it all by my pulse long before; 
nor the deeply interesting and characteristic scene with Mr. 
Kegulus ; nor the parting interview with Mrs. Linwood and 
Edith. 

Yes, I will give a brief sketch of the last hour spent with 
Edith, the night before the wedding. We were to be married 
in the morning, and immediately commence our bridal journey. 

Edith had never alluded to her own feelings respecting her 
brother's marriage, since the evening of the only misunderstand- 
ing we ever had in our sisterly intercourse ; and it was a sub- 
ject I could not introduce. The delicate, gauzy reserve in 
which she enfolded herself was as impenetrable to me as an 
ancient warrior's armor. 

Now, when the whole household was wrapped in silence, and 
the lamps extinguished, and I sat in my night robe in the recess 
of the window, she came and sat down beside me. We could 
see each other's faces by the silver starlight It glittered on 
the tear drops in the eyes of botli. I put my arms around her, 
and, la}'ing my head on her bosom, poured out all the love, 
gratitude, and affection with which my full heart was burdened. 

'^ Forgive me, my beloved Gabriella," she cried, "my ap- 
parent coldness and estrangement. On my knees I have asked 
forgiveness of my heavenly Father. With my arms round 
your neck, and your heart next mine, I ask forgiveness of you. 
Try not to think less of me for the indulgence of a too selUsh 
and exacting spirit, but remember me as the poor little cripple, 
who for years found her brother's arm her strength and her 
stay, and learned to look up to him as the representative of 
Providence, as the protecting angel of her life. Only make 
him happy, my own dear sister, audi will yield him, not to your 
stronger, but your equal love. His only fault is loving you too 
well, in depreciating too much his own transcendent powers. 
You cannot help bemg happy with htm^ with a being so noble 
and refined. If he ever wounds you by suspicion and jealousy, 
bear all, and forgive all, for the sake of his exceeding love,— 




XBNB8T LINWOOD. S85 

far my sake, GabrieUa, and for the sake of the dear Redeemer 
who died for love of jou/' 

Dear, lovely, angelie Edith 1 noble, inestimable Mrs. Ion- 
wood ! — dearly beloved home of my orphan years, — grave of 
my mother, fiuewelll 

Farewelll — the bride <tf Ernest must not, cannot weep. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

The early portion of mj married life was more like a dream 
of heaven than a reality of earth. All, and more than I had 
ever imagined of wedded happiness, I realized. The intimate 
and constant companionship of such a being as Ernest, so intel- 
lectual, so refined, so highly gifted, so loving and impassioned, 
was a privilege beyond the conmion destiny of women. A 
hundred times I said to myself in the exultant consciousness of 

joy, — 

^^ How little his mother knows him ! The jealousy of the 
lover has yielded to the perfect confidence of the husband. 
Our hearts are now too closely entwined for the shadow of a 
cloud to pass between them. He says himself, that it would be 
impossible ever to doubt a love so pure and so entire as mine." 

Our home was as retired as it was possible to be in the heart 
of a great metropolis. It was near one of those beautifiil 
parks which in summer give such an aspect of life and puritj 
to surrounding objects, with their grassy lawns, graceful shade 
trees, and fountains of silvery brightness playing in the sun- 
shine, and difiusing such a cool, delicious atmosphere, in the 
midst of heat, dust, and confusion. In winter, ev6n, these 
parks give inexpressible relief to the eye, and freedom to the 
mind; that shrinks from the compression of high brick walk, 
and longs for a more expanded view of the heavens than can be 
obtained through turreted roofs, that seem to meet as they 
tower. 

It made but little difference to me now, for my heaven was 
within. The external world, of which I believed myself 

(236) 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 287 

wholly independent, seemed but a shell enclosing the rich- 
ness and fragrance of our love. The luxuries and elegan- 
cies of mj own home were prized chieflj as proofs of Ernest's 
watchful and generous love. 

The friend to whom he had written to prepare a residence^ 
was fortunate in securing one which he believed exactly suited 
to his fastidious and classic taste. A gentleman of fortune had 
just completed and furnished an elegant establishment, when un- 
expected circumstances compelled him to leave his country to 
be absent several years. 

I do not think Ernest would have fitted up our bridal hcnne 
in so showy and magnificent a style ; but his love for the beauti- 
ful and graceful was gratified, and he was pleased with my 
enthusiastic admiration and delight. 

I sometimes imagined myself in an enchanted palace, when 
wandering through the splendid suite of apartments adorned 
with such oriental luxury. The gentleman whose taste had 
presided over the building of the mansion, had travelled all 
over Europe, and passed several years in the East. He had 
brought home with him the richest and rarest models of Eastern 
architecture, and fashioned his own mansion afler them. Er- 
nest had not purchased it, for the owner was not willing to sell ; 
he was anxious, however, to secure occupants who would appre- 
ciate its elegance, and guard it from injury. 

Ah ! little did I think when eating my bread and milk from 
the china bowl bordered by flowers, when a silver spoon 
seemed something grand and massy in the midst of general 
poverty, that I should ever be the mistress of such a magnifi- 
cent mansion. I had thought Grandison Place luxuriously 
elegant ; but what was it compared to this ? How shall I begin 
to describe it ? or shall I describe it at all ? I always like 
myself to know how to localize a friend, to know their sur- 
roundings and realities, and all that fills up the picture of their 
life. A friend ! Have I made friends of my readers ? I trust 
there are some who have followed the history of Qabriella 
Lynn with sufficient interest, to wish to learn somethbg of her 
experience of the married life. 



238 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

Come, then, with me, and I will devote this chapter to a 
palace, which might indeed fulfil the prayers of the moet 

princ.-ly love. 

This beautiful apartment, adonied with paintings and statues 
of the most exquisite workmanship, is a reeeption room, from 
which you enter the parlor and find yourself winding through 
fhitod i>illars of ingrained marble, from tlie centre of which 
curtains of blue and silver, sweeping back and wreathing the 
cohnnns, form an arch beneath which (pieens might be proud to 
walk. The walls are glittenng witli silver and blue, and all 
the decorations of the apartment exhibit the same beautiful 
union. The ceiling above is painted in fresco, where cherulu, 
lovely as the dream of love, spread their wings of silvery timed 
azure and «lraw their fairy bows. 

Passing through this glittering colonnade into a kind of airy 
room, you ])ausc on the threshold, imagining yourself in a 
fairy grotto. We will supixose it moonlight ; for it was by moon- 
li«^lit 1 fii*st beheld this enchanting scene. We arrived at night, 
an<l Krnest conducted me himself tlirough a home which ap- 
j)o.'ired to me more like a dream of the imagination than a cre- 
ati«>n of man. I saw that he was surprised; that he was unpre- 
pared for such elaborate splendor. lie had told his friend to 
spare no expense ; but he was not aware that any one had 
iiUrodncrd such Asiatic magnitieence into our cities. I believe 
1 will de^cribe my own lirst impressions, instead of antici|)atiDg 
vours. 

The mellowness of autumn still lingered in tlie atmosphere, 
— for the season of the harvest-moon is the most beautiliil in 
tlio world. Tlie glorious orb illumined the fairy grotto with a 
ra(lian(*(' as intense as the noonday sun's. It clothed the pol- 
islicd whit<'ness of the marble statues with a drapery of silver, 
si):nklcd on th(i fountain's tossing wreaths, converted tlie spray 
that rose from the bosom of the marble basin below into a deli- 
cal<* wt'b of silvrr lace-work, and its beams, reflected from walls 
of l(K»kiiig-glass, multiplied, to appar<.*nt infinity, fountains, 
statu«*s, trees, ami llowcrs, till my dazzled eyes could scarcely 
distinguish the shadow from the substance. The air was per- 




ERNEdT LINWOOD. 239 

famed with the delicious odor of tropic blossoms, and filled with 
the sweet murmurs of the gushing fountain. 

^ Oh ! how beautiful I how enchanting ! " I exclaimed, in an 
ecstasj of admiration. ^This must be ideaL Reality never 
presented anj thing so brilliant, so exquisite as this. Oh, 
Ernest, surelj this is a place to dream of, not a home to live 
in?" 

^ It does, indeed," he answered, ^ transcend my expectations ; 
but if it pleases your eye, Grabriella, it cannot go beyond my 
wishes." 

^ Oh yes, it delights my eye, but my heart asked nothing but 
you. I fear you will never know how well I love you, in the 
midst of such regal splendor. If you ever doubt me, Ernest, 
take me to that island home you once described, and you will 
there learn that on you, and you alone, I rely for happiness." 

He believed me. I knew he did ; for he drew me to his bosomi 
and amid a thousand endearing protestations, told me he d9i 
not iK'iieve it possible ever to doubt a love, which irradiated 
me at that moment, as the moon did the Fairy Grotto. 

lie led me aroimd the marble basin that received the wa- 
ters of the fountain, and which was margined by sea-shells, 
from which luxuriant flowers were gushing, and explained 
the be^iutiful figures standing so white, so ^coldly sweet, so 
deadly fair," in the stilly and solemn moonlight. I knew the 
history of each statue as he named them, but I questioned him, 
that I mjf^ht haf e the delight of hearing his charming and poetic 
descriptions. 

^ Is Hiis a daughter of Danaus ? " I asked, stopping before a 
young and exquisitely lovely female, holding up to tlie fountain 
an urn, through whose perforated bottom the waters seemed 
eternally dripping. 

" It is." 

^ Is it llypermestra, the only one of all the fifty who had a 
woman's heart, punished by her father for rescuing her husband 
from the awful doom which her obedient sisters so cruelly in- 
flicted on theirs." 

** 1 believe it is one of the savage forty^iiiie^ who were con- 



240 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

dcmned by tlic judges of the infernal regions to fill bottomlesa 
vessels with water, through the unending days of eternity. She 
do4.'s not look much like a bride of blood, does she, with ikt 
face of softly flowing contour, and eye of patient anguish? I 
sui>pose fihal obedience was considered a more di^nne viime 
than love, or the artist would not thus Imve beautified and ideal- 
ized one of the most revolting characters in mythology. I do 
not like to dwell on this image. It represents woman in too 
d<' testable a light. May we not be pardoned for wont of implicit 
fiiitli in her migelic nature, when such examples are recorded of 
her periidy and heartlessness ? " 

" l>ut she is a fabulous being, Ernest," 

'* Fables have their origin in truth, my GabrieUa. Cannot 
you judge', by the shadow, of the form that casts it? Tlic mv- 
thology of Greece and Rome shows what estimate was placed on 
human character at the time it was written. The attributes of 
men and women were ascribed to gods and goddesses, and by 
their vij-tues and crimes we may judge of the moral tone of 
ancient society. Had there been no perfidious wives, the daugh- 
tei's (^f Danaus luid never been bom of the poet's brain, and 
embodied by the sculptor's hand. Had woman always been as 
true as she is fair, Venus had never risen from the foam of im- 
a^^ination, or floated down the tide of time in ber dove-drawn 
car, f^iving to mankind an image of beauty and frailty that is 
diilicult for him to sepjirate, so closely are they intertwined." 

*' Yes," said I, reproachfully, " and had woman never been 
forsaken and betrayed, we should never have heard of the fair, 
deserted Ariadne, or the beautiful and avenging Medea. Had 
man never been false to his vows, we should never have been 
told of the jealous anger of Juno, or the poisoned garment pro* 
pared by the hapless Dejamira. Ah ! this is lovely ! " 

" Do you not recognize a similitude to the flower-girl of the 
library ? This is Flora herself, whose marble hands are drip- 
ping with flowers, and whose lips, white and voiceless as they 
are, arc wearing the sweetness and freshness of eternal youth. 
Do you nut trace a resemblance to yourself in those pure and 
graceful features, which, even in marble, breathe the eloquence 




SBNEST LINWOOD. 241 

of love? How charmingly the moonbeams play upon her 
brow ! how lovingly they linger on her neck of snow ! " 

He paused, while the murmurs of the fountain seemed to 
swell to supply the music of his voice. Then he passed on to 
a lovely Bachanter with ivy and vine wreaths on her clustering 
locks, to a Hebe catching crystal drops instead of nectar in her 
lifted cup ; and then we turned and looked at all these classic 
figures reflected in the mural mirrors and at the mjrriad foun- 
tains tossing their glittering vrreaths, and cX the myriad basins 
receiving the cooling showers. 

"' 1 only regret,** said Ernest, ^^ that I had not designed all 
this expressly for your enjoyment; that the taste of another 
furnished the banquet at which your senses are now revelliug." 

**' Bat I owe it all to you. You might as well sigh to be the 
sculptor of the statues, the Creator of the flowers. Believe 
me, I am sufliciently gratefuL My heart could not bear a 
greater burden of gratitude." 

** Gratitude I " he repeated, " Gabriella, as you value my 
love, never speak to me of gratitude. It is the last feeling I 
wish to inspire. It may be felt for a benefactor, a superior, 
but not a lover and a husband." 

^ But when all these characters are combined in one, what 
language can we use to express the full, abounding heart? 
Methinks mine cannot contain, even now, the emotions that 
swell it almost to suflbcation. I am not worthy of so much 
happiness. It is greater than I can bear." 

I leaned my head on his shoulder, and tears and smiles ming- 
ling together relieved the oppression of my grateful, blissful 
heart. I really felt too happy. The intensity of my joy was 
painful, from its excess. 

^This is yours," said he, as we afterwards stood in an 

apartment whose vaulted ceiling, formed of ground crystal and 

lighted above by gas, resembled the soflest lustre of moonlight 

The hangings of the beds and windows were of the richest 

azure-colored satin, fringed with silver, which seemed the livery 

of the mansion. 

^And this is yoorsy" he added, lifting a damask cnrtaiDy 

01 



242 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

whicli fell over a charming little recess that opened into t 
beautiful flower bed. " This is a kiosk, where you can sit in 
the moonlight and make garlands of poetry, which Regulos 
cannot wither." 

" How came you so familiar with the mysteries of thb en- 
chanted palace ? Is it not novel to you, as well as to me ? " 

" Do you not recollect that I left you at the hotel for a short 
tini(i, after our arrival ? I accompanied my friend hither, and 
received from him the clue to these magic apartments. T\us is 
a bathing-room," said he, opening one, where a marble bath 
and ewer, and every luxurious appliance reminded one of East- 
ern luxury. Kven the air had a soft languor in it, as if per- 
fumed breatlis had mingled there. 

**I sihould like to see the former mistress of this palace," said 
I, gazing round with a bewildered smile ; ^ she was probaUy 
some inagniHeent Eastern sultana who reclined under that royal 
canoi)y, and received sherbet from the hands of kneeling slaves. 
She little dreamed of the rustic successor who would tread her 
marble halls, and revel in the luxuries prepared for her." 

** She was a very elegant and intellectual woman, I am told," 
replied Ernest, " who accompanied her husband in his travels, 
and assisted him in every enterprise, by the energy of her mind 
and the constancy of her heart, and whose exquisite taste di- 
rected the formation of this graceful structure. She painted 
the frescos on the ceiling of the boudoir, and that richly tinted 
jiicture of an Italian sunset is tlie work of her hand. This 
1k>us<.' and its decorations are not as costly as many others in 
this city, but it has sucli an air of Asiatic magnificence it pro- 
duee< an illusion on the eye. I wish, myself, it was not quite so 
showy, but it makes such a cliarming contrast to the simplicity 
an<l fiM'slux'ss of your character I cannot wish it otherwise." 

** I fear 1 shall be spoiled. I shall imagine myself one of 
those dark-(^yed houris, who dwell in the bowers of paradise 
and welcome the souls of the brave." 

** That is no inapproju-iate comparison," said he; "but you 
must not believe me an Ea>tern satrap, Gabriella, who darea 
not enter his wife's apartment without seeing the signal of ad- 




SRNBST LINWOOD. 248 

mittance at the door. Here is another room opening into this ; ** 
and pressing a spring, a part of the dividing walls slid back, re- 
vealing an apartment of similar dimensions, and furnished with 
equal elegance. 

^ This," added he, ^ was arranged by the master of the man- 
sion for his own accommodation. Here is his library, which 
seems a mass of burnished gold, from the splendid binding of 
the books. By certain secret springs the light can be so grad- 
uated in this room, that you can vary it from the softest twi- 
light to the full blaze of day." 

^ The Arabian Nights dramatized ! " I exclaimed. ^ I fear 
ire are walking over trap-doors, whose secret mouths are ready 
to yawn on the unsuspecting victim." 

^ Beware then, Gabriella, — I may be one of the genii, whose 
terrible power no mortal can evade, who can read the thoughts 
of the heart as easily as the printed page. How would you 
like to be perused so closely ? " 

" Would that you could read every thought of my heart, Er- 
nest, every emotion of my soul, then you would know, what 
words can never express, — the height and depth of my love 
and devotion — I will not say gratitude — since you reject and 
disown it, — but that I must ever feel. Can I ever forget the 
generosity, the magnanimity, which, overlooking the cloud upon 
my birth, has made me the sharer of your princely destiny, the 
mistress of a home like this ? " 

" You do not care for it, only as the expression of my aiTeo- 
tion ; I am sure you do not," he repeated, and his dark gray 
eye seemed to read the inmost depths of thought. 

" Oh, no ! a cottage or a palace would be alike to me, pro- 
Tided you are near me. It seems to me now as if I should 
awake in the morning, and find I had been in a dream. I am 
not sure that you have not a magic ring on your finger that 
produces this illasion." 

But the morning sunbeams flashed on the softly murmuring 
fountain, on the white polished forms of the Grecian myths, on 
the trailing luxuriance of the tropic blossoms. They j^ced in 



244 ERNEST LINWOOD* 

on the glittering drapery that wreathed the marble coluiims, and 
lighted the crystal dome over my head with a mild, sabdned 
radiance. 

A boudoir which I had not seen the evening before elicited 
my morning admiration, — it was furnished with such exquisite 
elegance, and contained so many specimens of the fine arts. 
Two rosewood cabinets, inlaid with pearl, were filled with cheft' 
d'cBuvres from the hands of masters, collected in the old world. 
They were locked ; but through the glass doors I could gaze 
and admire, and make them all my own. An elegant escritoire 
wa.s open on the table, the only thing with which I could asso- 
ciate the idea of utility. Yes, there was a harp, that seemed 
supported by a marble cherub, — a most magnificent instni- 
ment. I sighed to think it was useless to me; hot Ernest's 
hand would steal music from its silent strings. 

And now behold me installed as mistress of this lux- 
urious mansion, an utter stranger in the heart of a great 
metropolis ! 

It was now that I understood the reserve of Ernest's charac- 
ter. It was impossible that we should remain altogether stran- 
gers, living in a style which wealth only could sanction. Mr. 
liar land, the gentleman with whom Ernest had corresponded, 
moved in the circles of fashion and distinction, and he introduced 
his friends and acquaintances, being himself a frequent and 
agreeable visitor. Ernest received our guest with elegance and 
politeness, — these attributes were inseparable from himself,— 
but there was a coldness and reserve that seemed to forbid all 
approach to intimacy. Fearful of displeasing him, I repressed 
tlie natunil frankness and sociiil warmth of my nature, and I 
am sure our visitors often departed chilled and disappointed. 
The parlor was lined with mirrors, and I could not turn without 
seeing myself reflected on every side ; and not only myself, but 
an eye that watched my every movement, and an ear that 
drank in my every word. How could I feel at ease, or do jus- 
tice to those powers of pleasing with which nature may have 
gifted mc ? 




BBNBST LINWOOD. 



84S 



Sometimes^ thoii£^ yeiy Beldom, Ernest was not present; and 
then mj spirits rebounded from this unnatural constraint^ and 
I laughed and talked like other people. The youthful bright- 
ness of mj feelings flashed forth, and I forgot that a douded 
presided over my young life. 



21 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

I WOULD not give the impression that, at this time, I 
felt hurt at the coldness and reserve of Ernest, as exhibited 
in society. I was fearful of displeasing him by showing too 
much pleasure in what did not appear to interest him; but 
when the door was closed on the departing guest and he ex- 
claimed, — 

" Thank heaven ! we are once more alone I ** 

I could not help echoing the sentiment which brought as so 
close to each other, and rejoiced with him that formality and 
restraint no longer interfered with the freedom of love and the 
joys of home. He never appeared so illumined with inteDecty 
so glowing >vitli feeling, as in moments like these ; and I was 
llattered that a mind so brilliant^ and a heart so warm, reserved 
their brightness and their warmth for me. If he was happj 
witli me, and me only, how supremely blest should I be, with a 
companion so intellectual and fascinatmg I If Edith were but 
near, so that I could say to her occasionaUyy ^ How happy I 
am ! " if Mrs. Lin wood were with me to know that nothing had 
yet arisen to disturb the heaven of our wedded happiness ; if 
excellent Dr. Harlowe could only call in once in a while, with 
his pleasant words and genial smiles ; or kindly feeling, awkwud 
IMr. Kogulus, I should not have a wish ungratified. 

It is true I sometimes wished I had something to do, but we 
had supernumerary servants, and if I found any employment it 
must have been similar to that of Jack the bean-boy, who 
poured his beans on the floor and then picked them up again. 
I was fond of sewing. But the wardrobe of a young bride is gen- 
erally too well 'supplied; at leiist mine was, to admit of modi 

(240) 




XBVBST LIHWOOD. 847 

srdBe with the needle. I was pa88ioiiatel7 boA of readings 
I of hearing Emest read ; and many an hoar evexy day waa 
poCed to books. But the mind, like tiie body, can digest only a 
tarn quantity of food, and is oppressed by an ezoessiTe por- 

Biad Ernest wdeomed society, oor superb parlor would have 
n thnmged with nightly goests; but he pot up bars of cere- 
ny against such intrusion ; polished silver they were, it is 
e, but they were felt to be heavy and strong. He never vis- 
1 himself, that is, socially. He paid formal calls, as he would 
Inevitable taa^, rejoicing when the wearisome task was over ; 
; beyond the limits of ceremony he could not be persiMded 



Ghnndually our evening visitors became few,— -the cold season 
ranced, the fountain ceased to play in the grotto^ and the 
ntiful flowers were inclosed in the greenhouse. 
Our rooms were warmed by furnaces below, whidi difitased a 
nmer temperature through the house. In mine, the heat 
ae up through an exquisite Etruscan vase, covered with flow- 
» which seemed to emit odor as weQ as warmth, and threw 
t illusion of spring over the ^hilliwwa and gloom of winter. 
1 1 missed the glo¥ring hearth of Mrs. Linwood, the bri^it- 
and heartiness of her winter fireside. 
[ never shall forget how I started with horror, when I waa 
isdous of a feeling of Miniit, even in the presence of Ernest, 
ivas not possible I should be weary of the joys of heaven, if 
irere capable of sighing in my own Eden bower. I tried to 
lish the impression ; it would return, and with it self-re- 
lach and ai^^Tn^- 

Ef Ernest had not been lifled by wealth above the necessaty 
exertion ; had he been obliged to exercise the talents with 
ich he was so liberally endowed for his own support and the 
icfit of mankind ; had he some profession which eompeHed 
n to mingle in the world, till the too exquisite edge of hia 
laibilities were blunted by contact with firmer, roo^^ier b»» 
es, what a blessing it would have been! WMl what pride 
nU I have seen him go forth to his dail|y dntiei^ rare thai ho 



248 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

was imparting and receiving good. With what rapture would 
I Lave welcomed his returning footstep ! 

Oh ! had he heen a poor man, he would have been a greM 
man. He was not obUged to toil, either physically or mentallj; 
and indolence is bom of luxury, and morbid sensibility luxuri- 
ates in the lap of indolence. Forms of beauty and graodeor 
wait in the marble quarry for the hand of genius and skilL 
Ingots of gold sleep in the mine, till the explorer fathoms iti 
depths and brings to light the hidden treasures. Labor is the 
slave of the lamp of life, who alone keeps its flame from wax- 
ing dim. When a child, I looked upon poverty as man*s greateit 
curse ; but I now thought differently. To feel that every wish 
is gratified, every want supplied, is almost as dreary as to in* 
dulge the wish, and experience the want, without the means of 
satisfying the cravings of one or the urgency of the other. 

Had Ernest been a poor man, he would not have had time 
to think unceasingly of me. His mind would have been occu- 
pied with sterner thoughts and more exalted cares. But rich 
as he was, I longed to see him live for something nobler than 
personal enjoyment, to know that he possessed a higher aim 
than love for me. I did not feel worthy to fill the capacities of 
that noble heart. I wanted him to love me less, that I might 
liave something more to desire. 

" Of what are you thinking so deeply, sweet wife ? " he asked, 
when I had been unconsciously indulging in a long, deep reverie. 
" What great subject knits so severely that fair young brow?" 
he repeated, sitting by me, and taking my hand in his. 

I blushed, for my thoughts were making bold excursions. 

" I was thinking," I answered, looking bravely in his fiwe, 
" what a blessed thing it must be to do good, to have the will as 
well as the power to bless mankind.'' 

" Tell me what scheme of benevolence my little philanthro- 
pist is forming. What mighty engine would she set in moticm 
to benefit her species ? " 

" I was thinking how happy a person must feel, who was able 
to establish an asylum for the blind or the insane, a hospital 
for the sick, or a home for the orphan. I was thinking how 




mUMMBT LINWOOD. 949 

Hjl^tfiil It would be to go 01 into the byways of poverty, the 
ndflt of 8ickne88 and want^ i r inmates follow me, 

MR oomfort and ease an . ^ a^ ed them. I was 
■king, if I were a man, how 1 would lore to be called the 
BBd and bene&ctor of maikind; bat^ being a woman, how 
opd and happy I should be to follow in the footsteps of such 
good and glorious bemg^ and hear the bkssuigs bestowed upon 
I name.** 

I ^c^e with earnestness, and my cheeks g^wed with en- 
Hiasm. I folt the dasp of his hand tighten as he drew me 
Mr to his side. 

"Ton haye been thinking'' he said, in his peculiaily grave, 
iodioas accents, ^that I am leading a self^ndulging^ too 
mrioaslife?'' 

^ Not you — not yon alone, dearest Ernest ; but both of us,** 
eried, feeling a righteous boldness, I did not dream that I 
Messed. ^ Do not the purple and the fine Unen of luxury 
errate the limbs which they clothe? Is there no starving 
ksarus, who may rebuke us hereafter for the sumptuous fore 
er which we have revelle<f ? I know how generous, how 
npassionate you are; how ready you are to relieve the 
Serings brought before your eye ; but how little we witness 
re ! how few opportunities we have of doing good ! Ought 
*j not to be sought? May they hot be found everywhere in 
3 great thoroughfare of humanity ? ** 
** Yon shall find my purse as deep as your charities, my love- 
monitress," he answered, while his countenance beamed with 
probation. ^ My bounty as boundless as your desires. But, 
a great city like this, it is difficult to distinguish between 
lling degradation and meritorious poverty. Ton could not go 
o the squalid dens of want and sin, without soiling the white- 
is of your spirit, by familiarity with scenes which I would 
t have yon conscious of passing in the world. There are 
Me who go about as missionaries of good among the lowest 
egs of the populace, wh<Mn yon can employ as agents for 
or bounty. There are benevolent associations, through which 
or eharities o ir in full and refireshing 



250 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

bcr, I place no limits to your generosities. As to yoar mtgm- 
ficcut plans of establishing asylums and public institutions fat 
the lame, the halt, and the blind, perhaps mj single meau 
might not be able to accomplish them, — delightful as it would 
be to have an angel following in my footsteps, and binding up 
the wounds of suffering humanity." 

He smiled with radiant good-humor at my Quixotic schemes. 
Then he told me, that smce he had been in the city he had 
given thousands to the charitable associations which spread in 
great lifegiving veins through every part of the metropolis. 

^* You think I am living in vain, my Gabriella," he said, 
rising and walking the length of the splendid apartment and 
again returning, *' because I do not have my allotted daily task 
to perform ; because I do not go forth, like the lawyer, widi t 
green bag under my arm ; like the minister, with a sermon in 
my pocket ; or the doctor, with powders and pills. If necessitj 
imposed such tasks on me, I suppose I should perform them 
with as good a grace as the rest ; but surely it would ill become 
nie to enter tlic lists with my needier brethren, and take the 
bread from their desiring lips. Every profession is crowded. 
Evon woman is pressing into tlie throng, and claiming precedence 
of man, in the great struggle of life. It seems to me, that it is 
the duty of those on whom fortune has lavished her gifLs to 
step aside and give room to others, who arc less liberallj 
endowed. We mat/ live in luxury ; but by so doing, our wealth 
is scattered among tlie multitude, the useful arts are encouraged, 
and much is done for the establishment of that golden mean, 
which reason and philosophy have so long labored to secure/* 

As lie thus spoke calmly, yet energetically, moving back and 
forth under the arches of gUttering azure, his pale, transparent 
conii)lexion lighted up glowingly. My eyes followed him with 
exulting alfection. I wondered at the presumption of which I 
had been guilty. He had been doing good in secret, while I 
imagined him forfjetful of the sacred leg:icy, left by Christ to 
the rich. I had wronged him in thought, and I told him so. 

** You asked me of what I was thinking," I said, ** and yoQ 
draw my thoughts from me as by magic. I have not told you 




EBNE8T LINWOOD. 251 

alL /do not sigh for other society ; but I fear jou will become 
of mine.'' 
^ Do we ever weary of moonlight, or the sweet, fresh air of 
lyen ? No, Gabriella ; remain just as you are, ingenuous, 
r, and true, and I desire no other companionship. You 
■o entirely fill my heart, there is no room for more. You neyer 
htLYe bad, never will have a rivaL You have a power over 
me, such as woman seldom exercises over man. Love, with 
most men, is the pastime and gladdener of life ; with me it is 
life itself. A fearful responsibility is resting on you, my own, 
dear bride ; but do not tremble. I do not think it is possible 
Ibr you to deceive me, for you are truth itself. I begin to think 
joa have changed my nature, and inspired me with trust and 
eoofidence in all mankind." 

I did not make any professions, any promises, in answer to 
bit avowal ; but if ever a fervent prayer rose from the human 
heart, it ascended from mine, that I might prove worthy of this 
trost, that' I might presei^e it unblemished, with a constant 
reference to the eye that cannot be deceived, and the judg- 
ment that cannot err. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The first misfortune of my married life, came in the penoB 
of Margaret Melville. She burst into the boudoir one moming 
like a young tornado, seizing me in her strong armsy and giTing 
me a sliower of kisses, before I had time to recoTer from my 
astonishment. 

Ernest and myself were seated side by side by the escritoire. 
He Avas reading, — I was writing to Edith, little dreaming of 
the interruption at hand. 

" My dear creature," she cxclaimet, with one of her inimiti- 
ble ringing laughs, "how do you rfo? You didn't think of 
seeing me, I know you didn't. Where did I come from? I 
dropped down from the upper regions, — you do not believe 
tliat. Well, I came with a party of friends, who wanted me 
to keep them alive. They are stopping at the Astor House. 
By the way, my trunks are there, — you may send for them 
as soon as you please. (Her trunks! she had come for a 
long vi.-it, then !) There is my bonnet, mantilla, and gloves, — 
here 7 am, body and soul, — what a glorious lounge, — good 
okl Croesus, Avhat a palace you are in, — I never saw any thing 
60 magnificent ! Wliy, this is worth getting married for ! If I 
ever marry, it shall be to a rich man, and one who will let me 
do just as I please, too." 

Ernest in vain endeavored to conceal his vexation at this un- 
expected innovation on the elegant quietude and romantic 
seclusion of our home. His countenance expressed it bat too 
plainly, and Margaret, careless as she was, must have observed 
it. It did not appear to disconcert her, however. She had not 
waited for an invitation, — she did not trouble herself about a 

(262) 



K 11 N i: ST LI N AV <> O I> . 2r>3 

welcome. She had come for her own amusement, and pro- 
Tided that was secured, she cared not for our gratification. 

I can hardly explain my own feelings. I always . dreaded 
coming in contact with her rudeness ; there was no sympathy 
in our natures, and yet I experienced a sensation of relief 
while listening to her bubbling and effervescent nonsense. My 
mind had been kept on so high a tone, there was a strain, a 
tension, of which I was hardly conscious till the bowstring was 
slackened. Besides, she was associated with the recollections 
of Grandison Place, — she was a youtig person of my own sex, 
and she could talk to me of Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and the 
fiiends of my rural life. So I tried to become reconciled to 
the visitation, and to do the honors of a hostess with as good a 
grace as possible. 

Ernest took refuge in the library from her wild rattluig, and 
then she poured into my ear the idle gossip she had heard the 
evening before. 

** It never will do," she cried, catching a pair of scissors from 
my work-box, and twirling them on the ends of her fingers at 
the imminent risk of their flying into my eyes, — ^ you must 
put a stop to this Darby and Joan way of living, — you will be 
the byword of the fashionable world, — I heard several gentle- 
men talking about you last night. They said your husband 
was so exclusive and jealous he would not let the sun look upon 
you if he could help it, — that he had the house lighted through 
the roof, so that no one could peep at you through the windows. 
Oh ! I cannot repeat half the ridiculous things they said, but I 
am sure your ears must have burned from the compliments 
they paid you, at least those who have had the good-luck to 
catch a glimpse of your face. They all agreed that Ernest 
was a frightful ogre, who ought to be put in a boiling cauldron, 
for immuring you so closely, — I am going to tell him so." 

" Don't, Margaret, don*t! If you have any regard for my 
feelings, do n't, I entreat you, ever repeat one word of this un^ . 
meaning gossip to him. He is so peculiarly sensitive, he would 
shrink still more from social intercourse. What a shame it is 

22 



254 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

to talk of him in this manner. I am sure I have as much lil^ 
( rty lis I wish. He is ready to gratify every desire of my 
heart. He has made me the liappiest of human beings." 

^* Oh ! I know all that, of course. Who would not be happy 
in such a palace as this ? " 

'' It is not the splendor with which he has surrounded me," I 
answered, gravely, " but the love which is my earthly Provi- 
dence, which constitutes my felicity. You may tell these hutjf 
idlers, who are so interested in my domestic happiness, tluU I 
thank my husband for excluding me from companions so inferior 
to hinis(.'lf, — so incapable of appreciating the purity and elewk- 
tion of his chanicter." 

" Well, my precious soul, do n't be angry with them. Yon are 
a jewel of a wife, and I dare say he is a diamond of a husband ; 
but you cannot stop peoples' tongues. Tliey will talk when 
folks set themselves up as exclusives. But let me tell you one 
thing, my j)rctty creature ! — I am not going to be shut up in a 
cage while I am here, I assure you. I am determined to see all 
the lions ; go to all fasliionable places of amusement, all attrac- 
tive exhibitions, theatres, concerts, panoramas, every thing that 
j)roniises the least particle of enjoyment. I shall parade Broad- 
Avay, iVequcnt Stewart's marble palace, and make myself the 
belle of the city. And you are to go with me, my dear, -^ for 
am I not your guest, and are you not bound to minister to my 
gratification ? As for your ogre, he may go or stay, just as he 
phrases. There will be plenty who will be glad enough to take 
liis ])lacc." 

I did not expect that she would have the audacity to say this 
to Krnest ; but she did. I had never asked him to take me to 
j)laces of public amusement, because I knew he did not wish it 
Sometimes, wlicn I saw in the morning papers that a celebrated 
actor was to appear in a fine drama, my heart throbbed with 
momentary desire, and my lips opened to express it. But deli- 
cacy and pride always restrained its expression. I waited fitf 
him to sav, — 

" Gabriella, Avould you like to go ? '* 



E R y E S T L I N W O O D . 255 

The morning after her arrival she ransacked the papers, and 
figistening on the column devoted to amusements, read its con* 
tents aloud, to the evident annoyance of Ernest 

^Niblo's Garden, the inimitable Raveb — La Fete cham- 
pfyre, — dancing on the tight-rope, etc Yes, that's it We 
will go there to-night, Gabriella. I have been dying to see the 
Havels. Cousin Ernest, — you did not know that you were my 
eoosin, did you ? — but you are. Our mothers have been climb- 
ing the genealogical tree, and discovered our collateral branches. 
Cousin Ernest, go and get us tickets before the best seats are 
•ecored. What an tmpromisuig countenance I Never mind. 
Mr. Harland said he would be only too happy to attend Grar 
briella and myself to any place of amusement or party of pleas- 
ure. You are not obliged to go, unless you choose. Is he, Ga- 
briella?'' 

^ I certainly should not think of going without him,'' I an- 
swered, vexed to discover how much I really wished to go. 

^ But yon wish to go, — yoa know you do. Poor, dear little 
•onl ! You have never been anywhere, — you have seen noth- 
ing,— you live as dose and demure as a church mouse,—- 
while this man-monster, who has nothing in the universe to do, 
fix>m morning till night, but wait upon you and contribute to 
jour gratification, keeps you at home, like a bird in a cage, 
just to look at and admire. It is too selfish. If you will 
not tell him so, / wilL He shall hear the truth from some- 
body." 

^ Margaret ! " I said, frightened at the pale anger of Ernest's 
countenance. 

^ You dare not look me in the &ce and say that you do not 
wish to go, Gabriella ? You know you dare not" 

" I desire nothing contrary to my husband's wishes." 

^ You are a little simpleton, then, — and I do n't care what 
people say. It is a sin to encourage him in such selfishness and 
despotism." 

She laughed, but her lips curled with scorn. 

Erpest took up a pearl paper-cutter from the table, and b 
ity till it broke like glass in his fingers. He did not know 



256 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

he was doing. Madge only laughed the louder. She enjoyed 
his anger and my trepidation, 

*' A pretty thing to make a scene of! " she exchumed. " Here 
I come all the way from Boston to make you a visit, — expect- 
ing you would do every thing to make me happy, as other folb 
do, Avhen friends visit them. I propose a quiet, respectable 
amusement, in my own frank, go-ahead way, — and lo! — mj 
lord frowns, and my lady trembles, and both, occupied in watch- 
ing cacli other's emotions, forget they have a guest to entertain, 
as well as a friend to gratify." 

'^ You might wait till I have refused to accompany you, Misa 
Melville," said Ernest, in a cold, calm voice. " You know me 
incapable of such rudeness. But I cannot allow even a lady to 
make such unpardonable allusions to my domestic feelings and 
conduct. If a man cannot find a sanctuary from insult in his 
own home, he may well bar his doors against intrusion, and if 
he hjxs the spirit of a man, he will." 

" She is only jesting," said I, with a beseeching glance. " Yoa 
know Madge of old, — she never says any thing she really 
thinks. How can you be excited by any remarks of hers?" 

'* Cousin p]mest," cried Madge, while the laughing devil in her 
great black eyes tried to shrink into a hidmg-placc, " have you 
not manliness to forgive me, when the rash humor which my 
motlier gjive me makes me forgetful ? " 

She held out her hand with an ardent desire for reconciliation. 
She found she had a spirit to contend with, stronger than she 
imagined ; and for the moment she was subdued. 

*'Not your mother, Margaret," replied Ernest, taking the 
ofFered hand with a better grace than I anticipated. ^ She is 
gentle and womanly, like my own. I know not whence you 
derived your wickedness." 

" It is all original. I claim the sole credit of it* Father 
and mother botli saints. lam a moral tangent, flying off be- 
tween them. AVell, we are friends again ; are we not ? " 

" We are at peace," ho answered. " You know the con- 
ditions, now, and I trust will respect them." 

" AVe are all going to Niblo's," she cried eagerly ; " that is 
one condition/* 




XBHX8T LIHWOOD. 857 

^ Certainly^'' he answered ; and he could not help smiling at 
tbe adroitness with which she changed positions with him. 

^ Will joQ really like to go, Gabriella?" he asked, turning to 
me ; and his countenance beamed with all its wonted tenderness. 

^ Oh, yes, indeed I wilL I am sure it will be delightfuL" 

** And have you ever desired to partake of pleasures, without 
telling me of your wishes ? ** 

^ I do not know that I can call the transient emotion I have 
felt, a desire," I answered ; blushing that I had ever cherished 
tliooghts which I was unwilling to disdose. ^ I believe curi- 
€mtj is natural to youth and inexperience.** 

^ Perfect love casteth out fear, Gabriella. Yon must promise 
to tdl me every wish of your heart; and be assured, if coosist- 
«ot with reason, it shall be gratified ** 

Delighted at so pleasant a termination to so inausiHcious a 
beginning, I looked forward to the evening's entertainment with 
bright and elastic spirits. Once, as my eye rested on the frag- 
ments of pearl, I sighed to think how easily the pearls oi sen- 
sibility, as well as all the frail and delicate treasures of life^ 
might be crushed by the hand of passion. 

22* 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

I WAS surprised, when I found myself in a lofty dome, bril- 
liantly illuminated by gas, instead of the ample flower-garden 
my imagination had described. I hardly know what idea I had 
formed; but I expected to be seated in the open air, in the 
midst of blossoming plants, and singing birds, and trees, on 
whose branches variegated lamps were burning. £mest smiled 
when I told him of my disappointment. 

" So it is with the illusions of life,** said he. " They all pass 
away. The garden which you passed before the entranoe, bM 
given its name to the place; and even that, the encroachiog 
steps of business will trample on." 

Mr. Ilarland escorted Meg, who was in exuberant spirits, 
and as usual attracted the public gaze by her dashing and reck- 
less demeanor. Conspicuous, from her superior height, her 
large, roving black eyes, and her opera cloak of brilliant cheny 
color, I I'flt sheltered from observation in her vicinity, and 
hoped that Ernest would find I could mingle in public scenes 
without drawing any peculiar attention. Indeed, I was so ab- 
sorbed by the graceful and expressive pantomime, the noveltj 
and variety of the scenic decorations, that I thought not where 
I Avas, or who I was. To city dwellers, a description of these 
would be as unnecessary as uninteresting; but perhaps some 
young country girl, as inexperienced as myself in fashiooaUe 
amusements, may like to follow my glowing impressions. 

One scene I remember, which had on me the effect of en- 
chantment. 

The stage represented one of those rural fStes, where the 
peasantry of France gather on the village green, to minf^e in 

(258) 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 259 

the exhilarating dance. An aged couple came forward, hand in 
hand, in coarse grej overcoats, wooden sabots, and flapped hats, 
fieistened by gray handkerchief under their chins. Two tight 
ropes were stretched parallel to each other, about eight or ten 
feet above the stage, and extended over the parquette. A light 
ladder rested against them, on each side. The aged couple tot- 
tered to the ladder, and attempted to ascend ; but, at the first 
step, they fell and rolled on the ground. 

" Poor creatures ! " said I, trembling for their safety. " Why 
will they make such a ridiculous attempt ? Why will not some 
of the bystanders prevent them, instead of urging them with 
sach exulting shouts?'' 

^They deserve to suffer for their folly,*' answered Ernest, 
langhing. '^ Age should not ape the agility of youth. Perhaps 
they will do better than you anticipate." 

After repeated attempts and failures, they stood, balancing 
themselves painfully on the ropes, dinging to each other's 
hands, and apparently trembling with terror. 

^They will fall I" I exclaimed, catching hold of Ernesfs 
arm, and covering my eyes. I cannot bear to look at them. 
There ! how dreadfully they stagger." 

Again I covered my eyes, resolved to shut out the catastrophe 
of their broken necks and mangled limbs, — when thunders of 
acclamation shook the house ; and, looking up, I beheld a trans- 
formation that seemed supematuraL The old greatrcoats, 
clumsy sabots, and hats, were scattered to the ground ; and two 
youthful figures, glittering in white and silver, light and grace- 
ful as ^ feathered Mercuries," stood, hand in hand, poised on 
one foot, on the tight-drawn ropes. They danced* I never 
realized before the music of motion. Now, they floated down- 
wards like softly rolling clouds ; then vaulted upwards like two 
white- winged birds, with sunbeams shining on their plumage. 
A bright, fearless smile illumined their countenances; their 
dark, waving locks shone in the dazzling light 

Ernest seemed to enjoy my rapture. ** I take more pleasure," 
he said, ^ watching your vivid emotions, than in witnessing this 
wonderfully graceful exhibition. What a perfect ehild of Dataio 



2G0 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

you arc, Gabriella. You should thank me for keeping jtn 
somewhat aloof from the fascinations of the world. It is only 
in the shade, that the dew remains on the flower." 

I do not think one glance of mine had wandered from the 
stage, save to meet the eye of Ernest. We sat in the second 
row of boxes, about half-way distant from the stage and the cen- 
tre. I knew that every scat was crowded, but I did not observe the 
occupants. Meg, who cared as much about the audienoe as the 
performers, kept her opera-glass busy in gazing on those who 
were remote, and her own bold, magnificent eyes in exominii^ 
those in her vicinity. 

'^ Gabriella ! ** she whispered, " do look at that gentleman in 
the next box, one seat in advance of us. He has been gaz- 
ing at you for an hour steadily. Do you know him ? " 

I shook my head, and made a motion, enjoining silence. I 
did not think Ernest had heard her, and I did not wish hSs atten- 
tion directed towards an impertinence of this kind. It would 
make him angry, and he seemed to have enjoyed the evening. 

" Why do n't you look ? " again whispered Meg. " He may 
leave the box. He is certainly trying to magnetize you.** 

Impelled by growing curiosity, I glanced in the direction she 
indicated, luid met the unreceding gaze of a pair of dark, intense 
eyes, that seemed to bum in tlieir sockets. Their owner was a 
gontleman, who appeared about forty years of age, of a veiy 
striking figure, and features originally handsome, but wearing the 
unmistakable stamp of dissipation. I blushed at his bold and 
Btcadfast scrutiny, and drew involuntarily nearer to Ernest 
Ernest observed liis undiiunted stare, and his brows contracted 
over his Hashing eyes. The gentleman, perceiving this, turned 
towards the stage, and seemed absorbed in admiration of the 
giacoful and inimitable Ravels. 

" Scoundrel I " muttered Ernest, leaning forward so as to in- 
terpose a barrier to his insolence. 

"Did you speak to me, cousin Ernest?" asked Meg, with 
affected simplicity. 

He made no reply ; and as the stranger did not torn again, I 
became so interested in the performance as to forget his bold- 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 861 

During the interlude between the plays, I begged Ernest 
> get me a glass of water. Meg made the same request of Mr. 
larland, and for a short time we were left alone. 

The moment the gentlemen had left the box, the stranger rose 
nd stepped into the box behind him, which brought him on a 
ine with us, and close to me, as I was seated next to the parti- 
ion. I did not look him in the face ; but I could not help being 
ODsdous of his movements, and of the probing gaze he again 
xed on me. I wished I had not asked for the water. I could 
ave borne the faintness and oppression caused by the odor of 
tie gas better than that dark, unshrinking glance. I dreaded 
tie anger of Ernest on his return. I feared he would openly 
esent an insolence so publicly and perseveringly displayed. 
Ve were side by side, with only the low partition of the boxes 
etween us, so near that I felt his burning breath on my cheek, 
» a breath in which the strong perfume of orris-root could not 
Tercorac the fumes of the narcotic weed. I tried to move 
carer Meg, but her back was partially turned to me, in the act 
f conversing with some gentleman who had just entered the 
ox, and she was planted on her seat firm as a marble statue. 

The stranger's hand rested on the partition^ and a note fell 
ito my lap. 

^ Conceal this from your husband," said a low, quick voice, 
carcely above a whisper, ^ or his life shall be the forfeit as well 
s mine." 

As he spoke, he lifted his right hand, exhibiting a miniature 
ti its palm, in golden setting. One moment it flashed on my 
aze, then vanished, but that glance was enough. I recognized 
be lovely features of my mother, though blooming with youth, 
nd beaming with hope and joy. 

To snatch up the note and hide it in my bosom, was an act 
s ia««tinctive as the beating of my heart It was my father, 
ben, from whose scorching gaze I had been shrinking with 
uch unutterable dread and loathing, — the being whom she 
lad once so idolatrously loved, whom in spite of her wrongs 
he continued to love,— the being who had destroyed her 
icace, broken her heart, and laid her in a prematnre giaT6^«- 



2G2 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

the being whom her dying lips commanded me to forgire, wboa 
her prophetic dream warned me to protect from unknovn 
danger. Mj father ! I had imagined him dead, so many jean 
had elapsed since my mother's flight I had thought of him ss 
a iabulous being. I dreamed not of enoounteriDg him, and if I 
had, I should have felt secure, for how could he recognize hk! 
My father ! cold and sick I turned away, shivering with in- 
describable apprehension. He had destroyed my mother,— 
he had come to destroy me. That secret note, — that note 
which I was to conceal, or meet so awful a penalty, seemed to 
scorch the bosom that throbbed wildly against its folds. 

All that I have described occurred in the space of a few 
moments. Before Ernest returned, the stranger had resumed 
his seat, — (I cannot, oh, I cannot call \imi father ,) — and there 
was no apparent cause for my unconquerable emotion. Meg, 
who was laugliing and talking with her companions, had ob- 
served nothing. The secret was safe, on which I was told two 
lives depended. Two, — I might say ihreej since one was the 
life of Ernest. 

I attempted to take the glass of water, but my hand shook so 
I could not hold it. I dared not look in the face of Ernest, 
lest he should read in mine all that had occurred. 

'* What is the matter ? " he asked, anxiously. " Grabriclla, 
has any thing alarmed you during my absence ? " 

" The odor of the gas sickens me,** I answered, evading the 
question ; '' if you are willing, I should like to return home." 

*' You seem strangely affected in crowds,'* said he, in an un- 
dertone, and bending on me a keen, searching glance. " I Pfr- 
meniber on commencement day you were similarly agitated." 

" I do indeed seem destined to suffer on such occasions," I 
answered, a sharp pang darting through my heart. I read sus- 
j)icion in liis altered countenance. The flower leaves were be- 
ginning to wither. "' If Miss Melville is willing, I should like 
to return.** 

" What is that you say about going home ? '* cried Meg, turn- 
ing quickly round. "What in the world is this, Gabriella? 
You look as if you had seen a ghost 1 " 




BSNE8T I.INWOOD. 26S 

^Whatever she has seen, it is probable you have been 
tudlj favored, Miss Melville, since you were together," said 
nest, in the same cold undertone. The orchestra was 
tying a magnificent overture, there was laughter aud merri- 
At around us, so the conversation in our box was not over- 
Rid. 

'^ I ! " exclaimed Meg. ^ I have not seen any thing but one 
aable looking neighbor. I should not wonder if his eyes had 
stered her face, they have been glowing on her so intensely .'^ 
As she raised her voice, the stranger turned his head, and 
ain I met them, — those strange, basilisk eyes. They seemed 
drink my heart's blood. It is scarcely metaphorical to say 
» for every glance lefl a cold, deadly feeling behind. 
*< Come, Gabriella," said Ernest ; ^ if Miss Melville wishes it, 
e can remain with Mr. Harland. I will send back the car- 
ige for tliem." 

•* To be sure I wish it," cried Meg. " They say the best part 
the amusement is to come. Gabriella has a i)oor opinion of 
y nursing, so I will not cast my pearls away. I am glad / 
ive not any nerves, my dear little sensitive plant It t# a 
rrible thing to be too attractive to venture abroad ! " 
Tlie latter part of the sentence was uttered in a whisper, 
bile suppressed laughter convulsed her frame. 
Ernest did not open his lips as he conducted me from the 
eatre to the carriage, and not a word was spoken during our 
>meward ride. The rattling of the pavements was a relief to 
e cold silence. Instead of occupying the same seat with me, 
mest took the one opposite ; and as we passed the street lamps 
ey flashed on his face, and it seemed that of a statue, so cold 
id impressive it looked. What did he suspect ? What had 
done to cause this deep displeasure ? He knew not of the 
>te which I had concealed, of the words which still hissed in 
y ears. The bold gaze of the stranger would naturally excite 
s anger against him, but why should it estrange him from me ? 
had yet to learn the wiles and the madness of his boeom 
lemy. 
When I took his hand, as he assisted me fircmi the carrii^ 



264 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

I started, for it was as chill as ice, and the fingers, usually eo 
pliant and gentle in their fold, were inflexible as marble. 1 
thougbt I should have fallen to the pavement ; but exerting aU 
the resolution of which I was mistress, I entered the hou^e, and 
piisscd under the dim glitter of the silvery drapery into my own 
apartment. 

I had barely strength to reach the sofa, on which I snnk m 
a state of utter exhaustion. I feared I was going to faint, and 
then they would loosen my dress and discover the fatal note. 

** Wine ! " said I to the chambermaid, who was folding my 
0{)era cloak, which I had dropped on the floor ; " give me wine. 
I am faint." 

I remembered the red wine which Dr. Harlowe gave me, after 
my midnight run through the dark woods, and how it infused 
new life into my sinking frame. Since then I had been afraid 
to drink it, for the doctor had laughingly assured me, that it 
had intoxicated, while it sustained. Now, I wanted strength 
and courage, and it came to me, after swallowing the glowing 
draught. I lifted my head, and met the cold glance of Ernest 
without shivering. I dared to speak and ask him the cause of 
Ills anger. 

'' The cause ! " repeated he, his eyes kindling with passion. 
" AVho was the bold libertine, before whose unlicensed gaze yon 
blushed and trembled, not vntli indignation, such as a pure and 
innocent woman ought to feel ; but with the bashful confusion 
the veteran roue delights to behold ? Who was this man, whose 
presence caused you such overpowering emotion, and who ex- 
changed Avith you glances of such mysterious meaning ? Tell 
me, for I will know." 

Oh tliat I had dared to answer, " He is my father. Covered 
with slianie and humiliation, I acknowledge my parentage, 
which makes me so unworthy to bear your unsullied name. 
My darkened spirit would hide itself behind a cloud, to escape 
the villain whom nature disowns iind reason abhors." But, un- 
knowing the contents of the mysterious note, unknowing the 
consequences to himself Avhich might result from its disclosure, 
remembering the injunction of my dying mother, to be to Lim 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 265 

Uan angel in the hour of danger, — I could not save my- 

m, blame by revealing the truth. I could not stain my 

ii a falsehood. 

lever saw that man before,'' I replied. ^ Most husbands 

think modest confusion more becoming in a wife, than the 

tion which he usually deems it his own prerogative to 

. If I have been insulted, methinks you should wreak 

sngeance on the offender, instead of me, — the innocent 

r. It would be more manly." 

>uld you have had me make the theatre a scene of strife 

lodshed ? ** he exclaimed. 

! neither would I have you bring warring passions into 
icefiil bosom of your own home.'* 

this you ? " he cried, looking me sternly and sorrow- 

the face. " Is this the gentle and tender Gabriella, who 
in such a tone of bitterness and scorn ? " 
id not know tliat I spoke bitterly I " I exclaimed. '^ Oh, 
, you have roused in me a spirit of resistance I tremble 
! You madden me by your reproaches ! You wrong me 
r suspicions ! I meant to be gentle and forbearing ; but 
rm will writhe under the foot that grinds it into dust, 
how little we know ourselves I " 

1 anguish that cannot be described, I clasped my hands 
over my heart, that ached with intolerable pangs. I had 
a, — lost his love, — lost his confidence. Had I seen him 
^ve, I could scarcely have felt more utter desolation. 
M you what I was,'' he cried, the pale severity of his 
lance changing to the most stormy agitation. ^ I told yon 
3 cloud which hung over my cradle would follow mt to 
ave ; that suspicion and jealousy were the twin-bom 
ois of my souL Why, then, rash and blind, have yoa 
ted your happiness into my keeping ? Yon were waniedi 
t you hastened to your doom." 

cause I believed that you loved me ; because I loffed 
isted, with a love and faith more deep and strong than 

ever knew." 

id I have destroyed them. I knew it wooldbeso. I 

23 



2CG ERNEST LINM'OOD. 

knew that I would prove a faithless guardian to a charge too 
dear. Gabriella, I am a wretch, — deserving your haiwd 
and indignation. I have insulted your innocence, by euspicions 
I should blush to admit. Love, too strong for reason, couveiii! 
me at times into a madmjin. I do not ask you to forgive me ; 
but if you could conceive of the agonies I endure, you would 
pity me, were I your direst foe." 

Remorse, sorrow, tenderness, and love, all swept over his 
countenance, and gave pathos to his voice. I rose and sprans 
to his arms, that opened to receive me, and I clung to his neck, 
and wept upon his bosom, till it seemed that my life would dis- 
solve itself in tears. Oh ! it seemed that I had leaped over a 
yawning abyss to reach him, that I had found him just as I was 
losing him for ever. I was once more in the bauqucting-huusc 
of joy, and *' his banner over me was lov«." 

" Never again, my husband, never close your heart againn 
me. I have no other home, no other refuge, no other world, 
than your arms." 

" You have forgiven me too soon, my Gabriella. You should 
impose u{)on me some penalty equal to the offence, if such in- 
deed there be. Oh I most willingly would I cut off the hand 
so tenderly clasped in yours and cast it into the flames, if by 
6i» doing I could dt-'stmy the liend who tempts me to ^uspcct 
li«l(.liiy, wortliy of eternal trust. You think I give myself up 
without a .stru,2:;i:lo to the demon passion, in whose gi'a.-^p you 
have M*en nie writhing ; hut you know not, dream not, how I 
wrestle with it iu secret, and what prayers I send up to G<h1 for 
d« riveraiice. Jt seems impossible now that I should ever doubl 
ever wrong you aL^iin, and yet 1 diu'c not promise. Oh ! I 
dare not promise ; lor when the whirlwind of passion rises, I 
know not what 1 do." 

Had 1 not 1)(M n conscious that I was concealing something 
from him, thai v.hih^ he was restoring to me his conlidence, I 
was deceiving him, I should have been perfectly ha j)py in this 
hour of re«.oneiii;jt:on. IJut as lie again and again cla-ped nie 
to his ])osoin, an«l hivislK-d upon me the ten<lerest carcases, I in- 
voluntarily shiu'ik Ironi the presuire, le.->t he should feel the 




SBNB8T LINWOOD. 2OT 

note, which seemed to flutter, so quick and loud my heart beat 
•gainst it 

^We are neither of us fit for the fashionable world, my 
Gabriella," said he ; ^ we have hearts and souls fitted for a 
pnrer, holier atmosphere than the one we now breathe. If we 
bad some ' bright little isle of our own/ where we were safe 
finom jarring contact with ruder natures, remote finom the social 
disturbances which interrupt the harmony of life, where we 
ooald live for love and God, then, my Gabriella, I would not 
envy the angels around the throne. No scene like this to-night 
would ever mar the heaven of our wedded bliss. ^ 

Ernest did not know himself. Even in Crusoe's desert ide^ 
if the print of human footsteps were discovered on the sand, 
and had he fiown to the uttermost parts of the earth, the phan- 
tom created by his own diseased imagination would have pur- 
sued him like the giant form that haunted from pole to pole the 
unhappy Frankenstein. Man cannot escape from his own pas- 
sions ; and in solitude their waves beat against his bosom, like 
the eternal dashing of the tide, scarcely perceived amidst the 
active sounds of day, but roaring and thundering in the deep 
stillness of the midnight hour. 

** We were happy here before Margaret came," I answered ; 
^ liappy as it was possible for mortals to be. How strange that 
she should have come unasked, remain unurged, vnthout dream- 
ing of the possibility of her being otherwise than a welcome 
guest ! " 

^^ There should be laws to prevent households from such in- 
trusions," said Ernest, with warmth. ^ I consider such persona 
as great offenders against the peace of society as the midnight 
robber or the lurking assassin. Margaret Melville cares for 
nothing but her own gratification. A contemptible love of fun 
and frolic is the ruling passion of her life. How fidse, how 
artificial is that system where there is no redress for encroach- 
ments of this kind ! Were I to act honestly and as I ought, I 
should say to her at once, ' leave us, — your presence is intd- 
erablc, — there is no more affinity between ua than between 



2Q,S ERNEST LINWOOD. 

glass and brass.' But what would my mother say? THut 
would the world say? What would you say, my own deir 
wife, who desire her departure even as I do myself? " 

" I should be very much shocked, of course. If she had the 
least sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling, she would read all this 
in your countenance and manners. I often fear she will pe^ 
ceive in mine, the repulsion I cannot help experiencing. For 
your mother's sake I wish to be kind to Margaret." 

" Do you know, Gabriella, she once wished me to think of 
her as a wife? That was before her character was formed, 
however, — when its wild, untamable elements revelled in the 
morning freedom of girlhood, and reason and judgment were 
not expected to exert their restraining influence. Think of 
such an union, my flower-girl, my Mimosa. Do I deserve 
quite so severe a punishment ? " 

" You would have lived in a perpetual fever of jealousy, or a 
state of open anarchy. There would have been some memora- 
ble scenes in your diary, I am certain." 

'- Jealousy ! The idea of being jealous of such a being as 
!RIargarct ! The * rhinoceran bear * might inspire the passion as 
soon. No, Gabriella, I do not believe I could be jealous of 
another woman in the world, for I cannot conceive of the jK)5si- 
bi li ty of my ever loving another ; and the intensity of my love 
creates a trembling fear, that a treasure so inestimable, so un- 
si)oakiibly dear, may be snatched from my arms. It is not so 
much distrust of you, as myself. I fear the casket is not 
worthy of tlie jewel it enshrines." 

" Be just to yourself, Ernest, and then you will be just to all 
mankind." 

"The truth is, Gabriella, I have no self-esteem. A cele- 
brated German phrenologist examined my head, and pronounced 
it decidedly deficient in the swelling organ of self-apprecia- 
tion." 

lie took my hand and placed it on his head, amid his soft, 
luxuriant dark hair, and it certainly met no elevation. I was 
not skilled in the science of phrenology, and there might be a 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 269 

defect in the formation of his head ; but on his noble brow, it 
seemed to me that ^ every God had set its seal,** and left the 
impress of his own divinity. 

We started, for the steps of Madge were heard rashing up 
die marble stairs, and the sound of her laugh swept before her, 
and pressed against the door like a strong gale. 

Oh Madge ! that any one should ever have thought of yon 
as the wife of Ernest. 

23 • 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

It was not till the next morning that I dtt^d to read the 
contents of the note. It was in the magnificent batLing-room, 
on whose retirement no one ever intruded, that I perused these 
pencilled lines, evidently written with a hasty and agitated 
hand. 

"Can it be that I have found a daughter? Yes! in those 
lovely features I trace the living semblance of my beloved 
Rosalie. Where is she, my child? "Where is your angel 
mother, whom I have sought sorrowing so many years ? They 
tell me that you are married, — that it is your husband who 
watches you with such jealous scrutiny. He must not know 
who I am. I am a reckless, desperate man. It would be dan- 
gerous to us both to meet. Guard my secret as you expect to 
find your grave peaceful, your eternity free from remorse. 
When can I see you alone ? Wliere can I meet you ? I am 
in danger, distress, — ruin and death are hanging over me,— 
I must lice from the city; but I must see you, my child, my 
sweet, my darling Gabriella. I must learn the fate of my lost 
Rosalie. 

" The curtain falls, — I dare not write more. Walk in the 

I*ark to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, where I will wait 

your coming. Come alone, — I ask only a few moments. A 
father j)lcacls with liis child ! As you hope for an answer to 
your (lying prayers, come, child of my Rosalie, — child of my 
own sad heart." 

Once, — twice, — thrice I read these lines, — the death-war- 
rant of my wedded peace. How could I resist so solemn an 
appeal, without violating the commands of a dying mother? 
How could I meet him, without incurring the displeasure of my 

(270) 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 271 

husband? What possibility was there of my leaving home 
■lone, when Ernest scarcely ever left me ; when, afler his re- 
tain], if he chanced to go out, he always asked me how I had 
passed the time of his absence? How could I preserve out* 
ward composure, with such a secret burning in my heart ? A 
sigh, involuntarily breathed, — a tear, forcing its way beneath 
the <]uivering lash, would expose me to suspicion and distress. 
What could I, should I do ? I was alone, now ; and I yielded 
momentarily to an agony of apprehension, that almost drove 
me mad. On one side, a guilty, ruined parent ; on the other, a 
jealous husband, whose anger was to me a consuming fire. No, 
DO ; I could never expose myself again to that. I trembled at 
the recollection of those pale, inflexible features, and that eye 
of stormy splendor. The lightning bolt was less terrible and 
scathing. Yet, to turn a deaf ear to a father's prayer; to dis- 
reganl a mother's injunction; to incur, perhaps, the guilt of 
parricide; to hazard the judgments of the Almighty; — how 
awful the altoniative ! 

I t^aiik down on my knees, and laid my head on the marble 
slab on which I had been seated. I tried to pray ; but hysteri- 
cal sobs choked my words. 

" Have pity u|)on me, O my heavenly Father ! " at length I 
exclaimed, raising my clasped hands to heaven. " Have pity 
upon me, and direct me in the right path. Givo me courage to 
do riglit, and leave the result unto Thee. I float on a stormy 
current, without pilot or helm. I sink beneath the whelming 
billows. Help, Lord ! or I i>erish ! " 

Before I rose from my knees, il seemed as if invisible arms 
•iuri'onnded me, — b<'aring me up, above the dark and troubled 
waters. I felt as if God would open a way for me to walk in ; 
and I resolved to leave the event in his liands. Had I applied 
to an earthly counsellor, with wisdom to direct, they might have 
told me, that one who had been guilty of the crime my father 
had committed, had forfeited every claim on a daughter's heart 
That I had no right to endanger a husband's happiness, or to 
Bacrifice my own peace, in consequence of his rash demand. 
No instinctive attraction drew me to this mysterious man. In- 



273 ERNEST LIXWOOD. 

stead of the yeaminga of filial affection, I felt for him an uncon- 
querable repugnance. His letter touched me, but his coonte* 
nance repelled. His bold, unreccding eye ; — not thus should 
a father gaze upon his child. 

Upon what apparent trifles the events of our life somoUmes 
depend ! At the breakfast table, Lladge suddenly asked whai 
day of the month it was. 

Then I remembered that it was the day appointed for a meet- 
ing of the ladies composing a benevolent association, of which 
I had been lately made a member. After the conversation 
with Ernest, in which 1 had expressed such an anxiety to do 
good, he had supplied me bountifully with means, so that my 
purse was literally overflowing. I had met the society once, 
and had gone alone. The hour of the meeting was ten. What 
a coincidence ! Was Providence opening a way in which mj 
doubting feet should walk ? When I mentioned the day of the 
month, 1 added, 

" Our Society for the Relief of Invalid Seamstresses meets 
this morning. I had forgotten it, till your question reminded 
me that this was the day." 

'* Do not your coflcrs need replenishing, fair Lady Bounti- 
ful ? " a^ked Ernest '' This is an association founded on 
principles which I revere. If any class of females merit the 
Fymi)athy and I'ind offices of the generous sisterhood, it is tliat, 
whose services are so ill repaid, and whose lives must be one 
long drawn sigh of wcaruiess and anxiety. Give, my Gabriclku 
to your heart's content ; and if one pale cheek is colored with 
the glow of hope, one dim c} e lighted with joy, something wiD 
be added to the sum of human happiness." 

Ernest was unusually kind and tender. He watched me as 
the fond mother does the child, whom she has perhaps too se- 
verely chided. He seemed to wish to atone for the pain he had 
given, and to assure mo by his manner that his confidence wa3 
perfectly restored. 

" I shall avail myself of your absence," said he, "to pay soma 
of my epistolary debts. They have weighed heavy on my con- 
science for some time." 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 273 

^ And I/' said Madge, *^ have engaged to spend the day with 
Miss Haven. You can drop me on the way." 

Madge had behaved unusually well during the morning, 
and did not harass me at the breakfast table, as I feared she 
would, about the bold stranger at the theatre. Perhaps my 
pale cheeks spoke too plainly of the sufferings of the evenings 
and she liad a heart after all. 

As I went into my room to prepare for going out, my hands 
trembled so that I could scarcely fasten the ribbons of my bon- 
net. Every thing seemed to facilitate my filial duty ; but the 
more easy seemed its accomplishment, the more I shrunk from 
the thought of deceiving Ernest, in this hour of restored tran- 
quillity and abounding love. I loathed the idea of deceiving any 
one, — but Ernest, my lover, my husband, — how could I be- 
guile his new-born confidence ? " 

lie came in, and wrapped me up in my ermine-trimmed 
cloak, warning me of exposing myself to the morning air, which 
was of wintry bleakness. 

^ You must bring back the roses which I have banished from 
your checks," said he, kissing them with a tenderness and gen- 
tleness that made my heart ache with anguish. I did not de- 
serve these caresses ; and if my purpose were discovered, would 
tluy not be the last ? 

Sliuddcring, as I asked myself this question, I turned to- 
wards him, as if to daguerreotype on my heart every lineament 
of his striking and expressive face. How beautiful was his 
countenance this moment, softened by tenderness, so delicately 
pale, yet so lustrous, like the moonlight night! 

^ Oh, Krncst ! *' said I, throwing my arms around him, with a 
burst of irrepressible emotion, " I am not worthy of the love you 
bear me, but yet I prize it far more than life. If the hour 
conies when it is withdrawn from me, I pray Heaven it may be 
my hist." 

** It can never be withdrawn, my Gabriella. You may cast 
it from your bosom, and it may wither, like the flower trampled 
by the foot of man ; but by my own act it never can be de- 
stroyed. Nor by yours either, my beloved wife* At this 



274 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

moment I have a tru?t in you as entire as in heaven iUclC I 
look back with wonder and remorse on the dark delu^ioit to 
which I have submitted myself. But tlie sikjU is broken; tha 
demon laid. Sorrow has had its season ; but joy liatli come in 
the morning. Smile, my darling Gabriella, in token of forgive- 
no>s and i)oace." 

I tried to smile, but the tears would gather into my eyes. 

" Foolish girl ! " he cried. A loud laugh rung under tie 
silken ar(;hes. IMadge stood in the open door, her great black 
eyes brim mine: with mirth. 

** AVhcTi you have Ihiished your parting ceremonies,'* she ex- 
claimed, ** I think wo had better start. One would think yoQ 
were going to Kamschatka or Terra del Fuego, instead of Broa«i- 
way. Oil dear ! what a ridiculous thing it is to see jK^ople in 
love with each other, after they are married ! Come, Gabriella; 
you can carry his miniature with you." 

A*^ the carriage rolled from the gate, I was so agitated at the 
thought of the approaching interview I could not speaL 
^ladire rattled away, in her usual light manner ; but 1 did not 
attempt to answer her. I leaned back in the carriage, revolv- 
ing the best way of accomplishing my design. After leaving 
Madge, in-lead of going to the lady's, at whase house the society 
nut, 1 ordered the coachman to drive to one of the fashionable 
stores niul leave me. 

**Keturn in an hour," said I, as 1 left the carriage. **You 
will find uui at Mrs. Bralian's. Drive the horses out to the 
Battery lor exercise, as you usually do." 

As I gav(; these orders, my heart beat so fast I could hard- 
ly nrtieubite with distinctness. Yet there was nothing in them 
to excite suspicion. The horses were high-fe<l and little used, 
gay and sj)irited, and when we shopped or made morning calls 
tlie eoaehnian was in the habit of driving them about, to subdue 
thtMT iiery >p«'ed. 

1 should make too conspicuous an appearance in the park, in 
my el<.'gaiit cloak, trimmed with costly ermine and bonnet 
slia«led witli snowy plumes. I wouM be recognized at once^ 
for the bride of the jealous KiTiest wiis an object of interest 




XBHB8T LINWOOD. S76 

cariosity. To obviate this difficuky, I purchased a large 
gimjr shawl, of soft, yielding material, that completely covered 
cloak; a thick, green veil, through which my features could 
he discerned, and walked vrith rapid steps through the hnr- 
ijing crowd that thronged the side-walks towards the 



It was too early an hour for the usual gathering of children 
•ad nurses. Indeed, at this cold, wintry season, the warm 
anrsery was a more comfortable and enticing place. 

The park presented a dreary, desolate aspect No fountain 
tossed up its silvery waters, falling in rainbows back to earth. 
The leafless branches of the trees shone coldly in the thin glaa- 
iDg of frostwork and creaked against each other, as the bleak 
wind whittled through them. Here and there, a ruddy-fiiu^ Irish 
woman, wrapped in a large blanket-shawl, vrith a coarse straw 
bonnet blown back from her head, breasted the breeze with a 
Uttle trotting child, who took half a dozen steps to one of hers, 
tagging hard at her hand. It was not likely I should meet a 
fitfhionable acquaintance at this early hour ; and if I did, I was 
•hrouded from reo^nition. 

I had scarcely passed the revolving gate, before I saw a gen- 
tleman approaching from the opposite entrance with rapid and 
decided steps. Ue was tall and stately, and had that unmis- 
takable air of high-breeding which, being once acquired, can 
never be entirely lost As he came nearer, I could distmguish 
the features of the stranger ; features which, seen by dayli^t, 
exhibited still more plainly the stamp of recklessness, dissipa- 
tion, and vice. They had once been handsome, but alas! 
•hks ! was this the man who had captivated the hearts of two 
lovely women, and then broken them ? Where was the fiisdna- 
tion which Imd enthralled alike the youthful Rosalie and the 
impassioned Theresa ? Was this, indeed, the once gallant and 
long beloved St James ? 

^ You have come,'* he exclaimed, eageriy grasping my hand 
and pressing it in his. ^I bless you, my daughter, — and 
may God forever bless you for listening to a fother^s prayer 1* 

^I have come," I answered, in km, tremUlng aocentiy for ia- 



276 ERNEgT LINWOOD. 

describable agitation almost choked my utterance, — "but I can- 
not, — dare not linger. It was cruel in you to bind me lo 
secrecy. Ilad it not been for the mother, — whose dying 
words " — 

"And is she dead, — the wronged, — the angel Rosalie? 
How vainly I have sought her, — and thee, my cherub liufe 
one ! My sufferings have avenged her wrongs.** 

He turned away, and covered his face with his handkerchief^ 
I saw his breast heave with suppressed sobs. It is an awful 
thing to see a strong man weep, — especially when the tears are 
wrung by the agonies of remorse. I felt for him the most in 
tense pity, — the most entire forgiveness, — yet I recoiled fix«n 
his approach, — I slirunk from the touch of his dry and ner\*oiu 
hand. I felt polluted, degraded, by the contact. 

" My mother told me, if I ever met you, to give you not only 
her forgiveness, but her blessing. She blessed you, for tlie suf- 
ferings that weaned her from earth and chastened her spirit 
for a holier and happier world. She bade me tell you, that in 
spite of her wrongs she had never ceased to love you. In obe- 
dience to her dying will, I have shown you a daughter's duty so 
far as to meet you here, and learn what I can do for one placed 
in the awful circumstances in which you declare yourself to be. 
S[)cak quickly and briefly, for on every passing moment the 
whole happiness of my life hangs trembling.** 

*• Only let me see your face for the few moments we are 
together, that I may carry its remembrance to my grave,— 
that face so like your mother's.'* 

"What can I do?" I exclaimed, removing the veil as I 
spoke, — for there was no one near ; and I could not refuse a 
petition so earnest. " Oh, tell me quickly what I can da 
Wliat dreadful doom is impending over you ? " 

"You are beautiful, my child, — very, very beautiful," said 
he ; while his dark, sunken eyes seemed to bum me with the 
intensity of their gaze. 

" Talk not to me of beauty, at a moment like this !** I ex- 
claimed, stamping my foot in the agony of my impatience. "I 
cannot, will not stay, unless to aid you. Your presence is 




ERNEST LIMWOOD. 277 

mwful ! for it reminds me of my mother^s wrongs, — my own 
clouded birth.'' 

^ I deserve this, and far more,*' he cried, in tones of the most 
abject humility. ^ Oh, my child, I am brought very low ; — I am 
a lost and ruined man. Maddened by your mother's desertion, 
I became reckless, — desperate. I fled from the home another 
had usurped. I became the prey of villains, who robbed me 
fX my fortune at the gaming table. Another, and another step ; 
— - lower and lower still I sunk. I cannot teU you the story of 
my ruin. Enough, I am lost ! The sword of the violated law 
gleams over my head. Every moment it may fall. I dare not 
remain another day in this city. I dare not stay in my native 
land. If I do, yonder dismal Tombs will be my life-long 
abode." 

" Fly, then, — fly this moment," I cried. " What madness ! 
to linger in the midst of danger and disgrace ! *' 

^ Alas ! my daughter, I am penniless. I had laid aside a 
large sum, suflicient for the emergency ; but a wretch robbed 
me of all, only two nights since. Humiliating as it is, I must 
turn beggar to my child. Your husband is a Dives; I, the 
Lazarus, who am perishing at his gate." 

'Ask him. lie is noble and generous. He will fill your 
purse with gold, and aid you to escape. Gro to him at once. 
You know not his princely heart" 

^ Never ! On you alone I depend. I will not ask a favor 
of man, to save my soul from perdition. Girl I have you no 
power over the wealth that must be rusting in your coflers ? 
Arc you not trusted with the key to your household treasures ? " 

" Do you think I would take his gold clandestinely ? " I 
askcfl, glowing with indignation, and recoiling from the expres- 
sion of his eager, burning eye. We were walking slowly during 
tins exciting conversation ; and, cold as it was, the moisture 
gatliered on my brow. ^ Here is a purse, given me for a holier 
purpose. Take it, and let me ga" 

" Thank you, — bless you, my child ! but this will only re- 
lieve present necessity. It will not carry mo in safety to dis^ 

24 



278 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

% 

tont climes. Bless you ! but take it back, take it bade I en 
only meet my doom 1 " 

<' I will go to my husband ! ** I exclaimed with sudden reso- 
lution ; ^' I will tell him all, and he, and he alone shall aid job. 
I will not wrong him by acting without his knowledge. Too 
have no right to endanger my lifelong peace. Tou have de- 
stroyed my mother; must her child too be sacrificed ? " 

'^ I see there is but one path of escape," he cried, im|iti*liing t 
pistol from liis breast, and turning the muzzle to his heart 
'< Fool, dolt, idiot that I am ! I dreamed of salvation from t 
daughter's hand, but I have forfeited a father's name, a ^thci^s 
affection. Gabriella, you might save me, but I blame you not 
Do not curse me, though I fill a felon's grave; — better that 
than the dungeon — the scaffold." 

" What would you do ? " I whispered hoarsely, seizing Ik 
arm with spasmodic grasp. 

" Die, before I am betrayed." 

"I will not betray you; what sum will suffice for your 
emergency ? Name it." 

'^ As many thousands as there are hundreds there,** pointing to 
the purse. 

" Good heavens!" 

" Gabrielhi, you must have jewels worth a prince's ransom; 
you had diamonds last night on your neck and arms that would 
redeem your fathers life. Each gem is but a drop of water in 
the deep sea of his riches. His uncle was a modem Cncsos, 
and he, his sole heir." 

" How know you this? " I asked. 

*' Every one knows it. The rich are the cities on the hill- 
tops, seen afar off. You hesitate, — you tremble. Keep your 
dianiotids, — but remember they will eat like burning coals into 
your flesh." 

Fierce and deadly passions gleamed from his eye. He 
clenched the pistol so tight that his nails turned of a purplish 
blue. 

No one was near us, to witness a scene so strange and appall- 
ing. The thundering sounds of city life were rolling along the 




■ BHS8T LINWOOD. 279 

great thoroagiifiue of tlie metropoliSy now ratdingy Bhrilly and 
■tartlingy then roaring, swelling, and sobsiding again, like tho 
distant auif ; bat around ns, there was silence and space. In 
tbe brief moment that we stood &ce to &ce, my mind was at 
wmk with preternatural activity. I remembered that I had a 
let of diamonds, — the bridal gift of Mrs. Linwood,— -a superb 
and costly set, which I had left a week previous in the hands of 
the jeweller, that he might remedy a slight defect in the clasps. 
Those which I wore at the theatre, and which had attracted his 
iniff*'i>^i* eye, were the gift of Ernest He had clasped them 
aiooiid my ned^ and arms, as he was about to lead me to tho 
altar, and hallowed the offering with a bridegroom's kiss. I 
eoold have given my hearts blood sooner than the radiant pfedge 
f)i wedded faith and love. 

I could go to the jewellers, — get possession of the diamonds, 
and thus redeem my guilty parent from impending ruin. Then, 
the waves of the Atlantic would roll between us, and I would 
be spared the humiliation and agony of another scene like this. 
I told him to follow me at a short distance ; that I would get the 
jewels ; that he could receive them from me in the street in the 
midst of the jostling crowd without observation. 

*^ It is the last time," I cried, '^ the last time I ever act with- 
out my husband's knowledge. I have obeyed my mother,! 
have fulfilled my duty, at the isk of all my soul holds dear. 
And now, as you hope to meet l-ereafler her, who^ if angels can 
sorrow, stiU mourns over your transgressions, quit the dark 
path you are now treading, and devote your future life to peni- 
tence and prayer. Oh I by my mother^s wrongs and woes, and 
by my own, by the mighty power of God and a Saviour's 
dying love, I entreat you to repent, forsake your sins, and live, 
live, forever more." 

Tears gushed from my eyes and checked my utterance. Oh ! 
how sad, how dreadful, to address a fiuher thus. 

^ Gabriella ! " he exclaimed, *^ you are an angeL Fray for me, 
pray for me, thou pure and holy being, and forgive the sins that 
you say are not bqrond the reach of God's mercy, I dare not, 



280 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

not here, — yet for one dear embrace, my childy I would wi^ 
lingly meet the tortures of the prison-house and the scaffold." 

I recoiled with horror at the suggestion. I would not have 
had his arms around me for worlds. I could not call him 
father, I pitied, — wept for him; but I shrunk with loatluDg 
from his presence. Dropping my veil over my face, I turned 
luu^tily, gained the street, pressed on through the moving mass 
without looking to the right or lefl, till I reached the shop where 
my jewels were deposited, — took them without waiting for ex- 
planation or inquiry, hurried back till I met St. James, slipped 
the casket into his eager hand, and pressed on without uttering 
a syllable. Never shall I forget the expression of his connte* 
nance as he received the casket The fierce, wild, exulting 
Hash of his dark sunken eye^ whose reddish blackness seemed 
suddenly to ignite and burn like heated iron. There was 
something demoniac in its glare, and it haunted me in mj 
dreams long, long afterwards. 

I did not look back, but hurried on, rejoicing that rapidity of 
motion was too customary in Broadway to attract attention. Be- 
fore 1 arrived at the place of meeting, I wished to divest myself 
of tlie shawl which I had used as a disguise ; and it was no 
diiru'ult matter, where poverty is met in all its forms of wretch- 
edness and woe. 

" Take this, my good woman ** said I, throwing the soft gray 
covering over the shoulders of' a thin, shivering, Iiaggard look- 
ing female, on wliosc face chill penury was written in wither^ 
ing lines. You are cold and suffonng.** 

"" r>less your sweet face. God Almighty bless you ! " was 
wafted to my ears, in tremulous accents, — for I did not stop to 
meet her \ook of wonder, gratitude, and ecstasy. I did not de- 
sen e her blessing ; but the gannent sheltered her meagre frames 
and she went on her way rejoicing. 




CHAPTER XXXVI, 

When I entered Mrs. Brahan's drawing-room, I was in a 
kind of somnambulism, — moving, walking, seeing, yet hardlj 
cooscioas of what I was doing, or what was passing around me. 
She was the president of the association, and a very charming 
woman* 

*^ We feared we were not going to see yon this morning," she 
said, glancing at a French clock, which showed the lateness of 
the hour ; ^ but we esteem it a privilege to have you with us, 
even for a short time. We know," she added, with a smile, 
^ what a sacrifice we impose on Mr. Linwood, when we deprive 
him of your society." 

^Yes!" cried a sprightly young lady, with whom I was 
slightly acquainted, ^ we all consider it an event, when we can 
catch a glimpse of Mrs. Linwood. Her appearance at the thea- 
tre last night created as great a sensation as would a new con- 
stellation in the zodiac" 

These allusions to my husband's exclusive devotion brought 
the color to my cheeks, and the soft, warm air of the room 
stole soothingly round me. I tried to rouse myself to a con- 
sciousness of the present, and apologized for my delay with 
more ease and composure than I expected. 

When the treasurer received the usual funds, I was obliged to 
throw myself on her leniency. 

^ I have disposed of my purse since I left home," said I, 
with a guilty blush, '^ but I will double my contribution at the 
next meeting." 

'^ It is no matter," was the reply. ^ Tou have already met 
your responsibilities, — far more than met them, — your repo* 

24 • («) 



282 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

tation for benevolence is already too well established for us to 
doubt ihal your will is equal to your power." 

AVhcnever I went into society, I realized the distinction of 
being the wife of the rich and exclusive Ernest Linwood^ the 
mistress of the orienUil palace, as Mrs. Braban called our dweQ- 
in^r.place. I always found myself flattered and caressed, and 
perhaps something was owing to personal attraction. I never 
presumed on the distinction awarded mc; never made myself or 
mine the subjects of conversation, or sought to engross the atten- 
tion of others. I had always remembered the obscurity of my 
early lile, the cloud upon my birth, not abjectly, but proudly I 
was too proud to arrogate to myself any credit for the adven- 
titious circumstances which had raised me above the level of 
others, — too proud of the love that had given the clevatioD, 
to exalt myself as worthy of it, 

^^ I think you must be the happiest being in the world, Mrs. 
Linwood," said the sprightly young lady, who had taken a seat 
by my side, and who had the brightest, most sparkling oounte- 
nancc I ever saw. "You live in such a beautiful, beauiifid 
])lace, with such an elegant husband, too ! What a life of en- 
chantment youi-s must be ! Do you know you are tlie envy of 
all the young ladies of the city ? " 

'* I liojxi not," I answered, trying to respond in the same 
.spoitivo strain ; and every one knows, that when the heart is 
opprosst'd by secret anxiety, it is easier to be gay than cheer- 
ful. '' I }i()])e not ; as I might be in danger of being exhaled bj 
soiiKi subtle perfume. I have heard of the art of poisoning 
b< iiiLT brought to such perfection, that it can be communicated 
bv :i llown* ov a rinfr.'* 

**Jt must be a very fascinating study," she said, laughingly* 
*• I intend to take lessons, though I think throwing vitriol in the 
lai'e and marring its beauty, is the most effectual way of remov- 
ing a rival.'* 

** J thou;^ht you were discussing the wants and miseries of the 
sewing sisterhood," said Mrs. Brahan, coming near us, '•What 
tftarted so horrible a theme ? " 

" Mr. Linwooirs perfections," said the young lady, with a gay 
smile. 




EBNE8T LINWOOD. 288 

^ He has one great fault," observed Mrs. Brahan ; ^ he keeps 
jou too dose a prisoner, my dear. I fear he is very selfish* 
Tell him so from me ; for he must not expect to monopdice a 
jewel formed to adorn and beautify the world." 

She spoke sportively, benignantly, without knowing the 
deep truth of her words. She knew that my husband sought 
retirement ; that I seldom went abroad without him. But she 
Ibew not, dreamed not, of the strength of the master-passion 
that governed his actions. 

Gradually the company dispersed. As I came so late, I re- 
mained a little behind the rest, attracted by a painting in the 
back parior. I suppose I inherited from my £iUher a love of 
the fine arts ; for I never could pass a statue or a picture with- 
out pausing to gaze upon it. 

This represented a rocky battlement, rising in the midst of 
the deep blue sea. The silvery glinuner of moonlight shone on 
the rippling waves ; moonlight breaking through dark clouds, — - 
producing the most dazzling contrast of light and shade. A 
large vessel, in full sail, glided along in the gloom of the shad- 
ows ; a little skiff floated on the white-crested, sparkling, shining 
tide. The flag of our country waved from the rocky tower. I 
seemed gazing on a familixur scene. Those wave washed battle- 
ments ; that floating banner ; the figures of soldiers marching 
on tlie ramparts, with folded arms and measured tread,— -all 
i^peared like the embodiment of a dream. 

" Wliat does this represent ? " I asked. 

" Fortress JMonroc, on Chesapeake Bay." 

" I thought so. Who was the artist ? " 

^ I think his name was St. James. It is on the picture, near 
the frame. Yes, — Henry Gabriel St James. What a beau- 
tiful name ! Poor fellow ! — I believe he had a sad fate I Mr. 
Bralian could tell you something of his history. He purchased 
this liouse of him seventeen years ago. What is the matter, 
Mrs. Lin wood ? " 

I sank on the nearest seat, incapable of supporting myself. 
I was in the house where I was bom, — where my mother 
passed the brief period of her wedded happineas; whence the 



284 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

was driven, a wronged, despairing woman, with me, an uncon- 
scious infant, in her arms. It was mj fathei^s glowing sketch 
on which I was gazing, — that father whom I had so recendj 
met, — a criminal, evading the demands of justice ; a man who 
had lost all his original brightness, — a being of sin and miseiy. 

Mrs. Brahan rang for water ; but I did not faint. 

^' I have taken a long walk tliis morning," I said, ^ and your 
rooms are warm. I feel better, now. And this house belonged 
to the artist ? I feel interested in his story.** 

" I wish Mr. Brahan were here ; but I will tell you all I 
recollect. It was a long time ago ; and what wo hear from others 
of individuals in whom we have no personal interest, is soon 
forgotten. Do you really feel better? Well, I believe St 
James, the artist, was a higlily accomplished, gifled man. He 
was married to a beautiful young wife, and I think had one 
child. Of course he was supremely happy. It seems he was 
called away from home very suddenly, was gone a few months, 
and when he retuiiied, he found his wife and child fled, and 
a stninger churning her name and place, I never heard this 
mystery ex])hiuied ; but it is said, she disappeared as suddenly 
as she came, while ho sought by every means to recover his lost 
treasure, but in vain, llis reason at one time forsook him, 
and his hoalth declined. At length, unable to remain where 
eviry thin;^ reminded him of his departed liappiness, he resolved 
to leave the country and go to foreign climes. Mr. Brahan, 
who wished to purchase at that time, was pleased witli the 
house, — bought it, and brought me here, a bride. He has 
alttTcd and improved it a great deal, but many things remain 
just as they were. You seem interested. There is something 
mysterious and romantic connected with it. Oh I here is Mr. 
Brahan himself; he can relate it far better than I can." 

After the usual courtesies of meeting, she resumed the sub- 
ject, juid told her husband how much interested I was in the 
history of the unfortunate artist. 

"Ah yes!" cried he; "iKX)r fellow I — he was sore beset 
Two women claimed him as wives, — and he lost both. I never 
heard a clear account of this part of his life ; for when I knew 




SBNB8T LINWOOD. 286 

I, he was just emerging from insanity, and it was supposed 
mind was still clouded. He was very reserved on the sob- 
t <^ his personal misfortones. I only know it was the kes 
he wife whom he acknowledged that unsettled his reason, 
was a magnificent looking fellow, — - full of genius and feeling, 
told me he was going to Italy, — and very likely he died of 
x)ken heart, beneath its sunny and genial skies. He was a 
artist That picture has inspiration in it Look at the re- 
ion of the moon in the water. How tremulous it is I Ton 
almost see the silver rippling beneath that gliding boat He 
a man of genius. There is no doubt he was." 
I should like to show Mrs. Linwood the picture which you 
id in the closet of his studio," said Mrs. Brahan. " Do you 
w, I think there is a resemblance to herself? ^ 
So there is," exclaimed Mr. Brahan, as if making a sudden 
every. ^ Her face has haunted me since I first beheld her, 
I have just discovered where I have seen its semblance. If 
will walk up stairs, I will show it to you." 
Jmost mechanically I followed up the winding stairs, so 
n pressed by the feet now mouldering side by side beneath 
dark coffin lid, into the room where my now degraded par- 
gave form and coloring to the dreams of imagination, or the 
lows of memory. The walls were arching, and lighted from 
v'e. Mr Brahan Lad converted it into a library, and it was 
ally lined with books on every side but one. Suspended on 
, in a massy gilt frame, was a sketch which arrested my gaze, 
it had no power to wander. The head alone was finished, 
»ut such a head ! I recognized at once my mother^s features ; 
as I had seen them faded by sorrow, but in the soft radiance 
ove and happiness. They did not wear the rosy brightness 
he miniature I had seen in my father^s hand, which was 
>ably taken immediately af\cr her marriage. This picture 
'escnted her as my imagination pictured her afler my birth, 
n the tender anxieties of the mother softened and subdued 
splendor of her girlish beauty; those eyes,— those unfbr- 
en eyes, with their long, curling lashes, and expression of 
/enly sweetness, — how they seemed to bend oo me^— »tlie 



280 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

child she had bo much loved! I longed to kneel before it, to 
appcjd to it, by every holy and endearing epithet, — to read 
the cold, unconscious canvas, and cover it with my kisses andmj 
tears. But I could only gaze and gaze, and the strong spdi 
that bound me was mistaken for the ecstasy of admiration, sad 
as genius only can awaken. 

"There is a wonderful resemblance," said Mr. Brahin, 
breaking the silence. "I shall feel great pride henceforth in 
saying, I have an admirable likeness of Mrs. Linwood." 

" I ought to feel greatly flattered," I answered with a qoiek 
drawn breath ; " it certainly is very lovely." 

*' It has the loveliest expression I ever saw in woman's coun- 
tenance," observed Mr. Brahan. " Perhaps, after making such 
a remark, I ought not to say, that in that chiefly lies its resem- 
blance to yourself, but it is emphatically sa" 

" She must be too much accustomed to compliments to mind 
yours, my dear," said Mrs. Brahan. " I think Mrs. Linwood 
has the advantage of the picture, for she has the bloom and 
light of life. No painting can supply these." 

*' There is something in the perfect repose of a picture," saud 
I, withdrawing my eyes from my mother's seraphic countenance; 
" sonietliing in its serene, unchanging beauty, that is a type of 
immortality, of the divine rest of the souL Life is restless, 
and glows tremulous as we gaze." 

'* O that that picture were mine I " I unconsciously uttered, 
as I turned to take a last look on leaving the apartment. 

'^ I do not know that it is mine to give," said J^Ir. Brahao, 
" as I found it here after purchasing the house. The one below 
was j)resented me by St James himself. If, however, you will 
allow nio to send it to Mr. Linwood, I really think he has the 
best riglit to it, on account of its remarkable resemblance to 
yourself." 

**0h no, indeed," I exclaimed; "I did not mean, did not 
think of such a thing. It was a childish way of expressing 
my admiration of the painting. If you will give me the priv- 
ilege of sometimes calling to look at it, I shall be greatly io- 
debted." 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 287 

I hurried down stairs, fearful of commitdng myself in some 
majy so as to betray the secret of my birth. 

^ I wish you would come and see us often, Mrs. Linwood," 
said Mrs. Brahan, as I bade her adieu. ^ We are not very 
fiuhionable ; but if I read your character aright, you will not 
dislike us on that account A young person, who is almost a 
stranger in a great city like this, sometimes feels the want of an 
older friend. Let me be that friend." 

^ Thank you, dear madam," I answered, returning the cordial 
pressure of her hand ; ^ you do not know how deeply I appre- 
ciate your proffered friendship, or how happy I shall be to cul- 
tivate it" 

With many kind and polite expressions, they both accompa- 
nied me to the door, and I left them with the conviction that 
vredded happiness might be perfect after the experience of 
seventeen years. 

When alone in the carriage, I tried to compose my agitated 
and excited mind. So much had been crowded into the space 
of a few hours, that it seemed as if days must have passed since 
I lefi home. I tried to reconcile what I had heard with what 
I had $een of my father ; but I could not identify the magnifi- 
cent artist, the man of genius and of feeling, with the degener^ 
ate being from whom I had recoiled one hour ago. Ck)uld a 
long career of guilt and shame thus deface and obliterate that 
divine and godlike image, in which man was formed? He 
must have loved my modier. Desperation for her loss had 
plunged iiim into the wildest excesses of dissipation. From my 
Boul I pitied him. I would never cease to pray for him, never 
regret what I had done to save him from ruin, even if my own 
happiness were wrecked by the act I had tried to do what was 
right, and God, who seeth the heart, would forgive mOi if wrong 
was the result 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Letters from IVIrs. Linwood and Edith waited mc at hom& 
Their perusal gave me an opportunity to collect my thoughts, 
and an excuse to talk of them, of Grandison Place, rather thac 
of topics connected ^'itli the present. Yet all the tune I wa& 
reading Mrs. Linwood*s expression of trusting affection, I said 
to myself, — 

" What would she say, if she knew I had parted with her 
s]>lendid gif\, unknown to my husband, whose happiness she 
committed so solemnly to my keeping ? " 

I told Ernest of the interesting circumstances connected with 
Mr. Brahan's house, and of the picture of my mother I so 
longed that I should sec. The wish was gratified sooner dian 
I anticipated ; for that very evening, it was sent to me by Mr. 
Lrahan, with a very elegant note, in which he asked me to take 
cliarge of it till the rightful owner appeared to claim it as his 
own. 

" It IS like you, Gabriella," said Ernest, gazing with evident 
admiration on the beauteous semblance; ^'and it is an exquisite 
painting too. You must cherish this picture as a proof of your 
mollier s beauty and your father's genius." 

I did cherish it, as a household divinity. I almost worship- 
ped it, for though I did not bum before it frankincense and 
myrrli, I offered to it the daily incense of memory and love. 

As Margaret consented to remain a week with her friend 
Miss Haven, we were left in quiet possession of our elegant 
leisure, and Ernest openly rejoiced in her absence. He read 
aloud to me, played and sung with thrilling melody, and drew 
out all his powers of fascination for my entertainment. The 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 289 

fear of his discovering mj clandestine meeting grew fainter and 
fiunter as day aflcr day passed, without a circumstance arising 
which would lead to detection. 

One evening, Mr. Harland, with several other gentlemen, was 
with us. Ernest was unusually affable, and of coarse my 
spirits rose in proportion. In the course of conversation, Mr* 
Harland remarked that he had a bet for me to decide. 

^ I cannot consent to be an umpire," said I. " I dislike bet- 
ting in ladies, and if gentlemen indulge in it, they must refer to 
their own sex, not ours." 

^ But it has reference to yourself," he cried, ^ and you alone 
can decide." 

^ To me ! " I exclaimed, involuntarily glancing at Ernest. 

^ Yes ! A friend of mine insists that he saw you walking in 

the Park, the other morning, with a gentleman, who was 

too tall for Mr. Linwood. That you wore a gray shawl and 
green veil, but that your air and figure could not possibly be mis- 
taken. I told him, in the first place, that you never dressed in 
that style ; in tlie second, that he was too far from you to dis- 
Unguisli you from another ; and in the third, that it was impos- 
sible you should be seen walking with any gentleman but your 
husband, as he never gave them an opportunity. As he offered 
a higli wager, and I accepted it, I feel no small interest in the 
decision." 

^ Toll your friend, Mr. Harland," exclaimed Ernest, rising 
from his seat, and turning pale as marble, ^that I will not 
permit my wife's name to be bandied from lip to lip in the 
public street, nor her movements made a subject for low and 
vuljrar bettiniij." 

^ Mr. Linwood ! " cried Mr. Harland, rising too, with anger 
flashing from his eyes, ^ do you apply those remarks to me ? " 

"' I make no application," answered Ernest, with inexpressible 
haughtiness ; " but I again assert, that the freedom taken with 
my wife's name is unwarrantable, and shall not be repeated." 

^If Mrs. Linwood considers herself insulted," cried Mr* 
Harland, ^ I am ready to offer her any apology she may desire* 
Of one thing she may be assured : no disrespect was intended 

25 



290 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

by the gentleman to whom I allude, and she certainly caniMl 
think that I would forget her claims as a lady, and as the wife 
of the man whom I had reason to believe my friend." 

lie spoke the last sentence with strong emphasb, and the 
blood mounted high in the pale face of Ernest. I could only 
bow, as Mr. Harland concluded, in acceptance of the apologr, 
for I saw a thundercloud darkening over me, and knew it would 
break in terror over my head. 

" I have spoken hastily, Mr. Harland,^ said Ernest. *•' If I 
have Faid any thing wounding to your feelings, as a gentleman, I 
recall it. But you may tell your friend, that the next time he 
ass<.'rt3 that he has seen Mrs. Linwbod walkin<; with a stranser. 
in ft public place, when I know she was in company with some 
of the first ladies of the city for benevolent designs, I shall call 
him to account for such gross misrepresentations." 

And I heard this in silence, — without contradiction. 

Oh ! how must the woman feel who has deceived her hus- 
band for a guilty purpose, when I, whose motives were i»ure 
and upright, sulFered such unutterable anguish in the praspect 
of detection ? If I were hardened enough to deny the asser- 
tion, — if I could only have laughed and wondered at the prtipos- 
terous mistake, — if I could have assumed an air of indiffer- 
ence and composure, my secret might have been safe. But 1 
was a novico in deception ; and burning blushes, and pale, cold 
shadows alternately flitted across my face. 

It was impossible to resume the conversation interrupted by 
a scene so distressing to some, so disagreeable to alL One by 
one our guests retired, and I was lefl alone with Ernest. 

The chandeliers w^ere glittering overhead, the azure cur- 
tains received their light in every sweeping fold, cherubs 
smiled bewitchingly from the arching ceiling, and roses that 
looked as if they might have blossomed by " Bendemere's 
stream," blushed beneath my feet, — yet I would gladly have 
exchanged all this splendor for a spot in the furthest isle of the 
ocean, a lone and barren spot, where the dark glance which I 
felt, but did not soe, could not penetrate. 

I sat wiLli downcast eye:^ and wildly throbbing heart, tryiog 




EBNK8T LIirWOOD. t91 

Id Bimimon. resolution to meet the trial I saw there was no 
■Mans of escaping. If he qnestioned, I most answer. I could 
BoCy dared not, otter a falsehood, and evasion wonld be considered 
iqnhralent to it. 

He walked back and forth the whole length of the parior, 
two or three times, without speaking, then stopped directly in 
Innt of me, still silent. Unable to bear the intolerable oppres- 
doQ of my feelings, I started ap and attempted to leave the 
room; bat he arrested me by the arm, and his waxen fingers 
wemed hardened to steeL 

^Gabriellal" 

Wb voice sounded so distant, so cold 1 

•Ernest I" 

I raised my eyes, and for a moment we looked eadi other 
n the face. There was fascination in his glance, and yet it 
tiad the dagger's keenness. 

^ What is iiie meaning of what I have just heard? What w 
the meaning of a report, which I should havd regarded as the 
idle wind, did not your overwhelming confusion establish its 
troth ? Tell me, for I am not a man to be tampered with, as 
foa will find to your cost** 

^I cannot answer when addressed in such atone. Oh,Icaii* 
not.** 

^ Gabriella I this is not a moment to trifle. Tell me, without 
irevarication, — were you, or were you not in the Park, walking 
irith a gentleman, on the morning you left for Mrs. Brahan's ? 
Answer me, — yes, or no." 

Had he spoken with gentleness, — had he seemed moved to 
lorrow as well as indignation, I would have thrown myself at 
lis feet, and deprecated his anger; but my spirit loae in 
rebellion at the stem despotism of bis manner, and nerved it- 
lelf to resist his coercive wilL 

Truly is it said, ^ We know not what manner of spirit we are 
>f 

I little thought how high mine could rebound firam tba 
iHong pressure which, in anticipation, croihed it to the dnst. 

I felt firm to endure, stnmg to resist 



292 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" Ernest ! 1 have done you no wrong," I answered, r^ing 
my eyes lo his pale, dark countenance. " I have done nothing 
to merit the displeasure which makes you forget the courtesy 
of a gentleman, as well as the tenderness of a Lusband." 

" Then it was a false report," he exclaimed, — a ray of Ught 
flashing from his clouded eyes, — "you could not look meio 
the face and t^peak in that tone unless you were innocent! 
Why did you not deny it at once ? *' 

" Only listen to me, Ernest," I cried ; " only give me a pia- 
tient, gentle hearing, and I will give you a history, which I am 
certain will convert your indignation into sympathy, and free 
me from suspicion or blame." 

I armed myself with resolution to tell him all. My father 
was in all probability far away on the billows of the Atlantic. 
My disclosures could not affect him now. My promise of 
secrecy did not extend into the future. I would gladly liave 
withheld from my husband the knowledge of his degradation, 
for it was humiliating to the child to reveal the parent's shame. 
Criminal he knew him to be, with regard to mj mother, hot 
Ernest had said, when gazing on her picture, he almost forgave 
the crime which had so much to extenuate it. The gambler, 
the profligate, the lost, abandoned being, who had thrown 
himself so abjectly on my compassion : in these characters, the 
high-minded Ernest would spurn him with withering indigna- 
tion. Yet as the interview had been observed, and his 6u>pi- 
cions excited, it was my duty to make an unreserved confes- 
sion, — and I did. Conscious of the purity of my motives, 
and assured tliat he must eventually acquit me of blame, I told 
liini all, from the note he dropped into my lap at the theatre, to 
the diamond casket given in parting to his desperate hand. I 
told him all my struggles, my fears, my agonies, — dwelling 
most of all on the agony I suffered in being compelled to de- 
ceive him. 

Silently, immovably he heard me, never interrupting me by 
question or explanation. He had seated himself on a sofa 
when I bejran, motioning me to sit down by him^ but I drew 
forward a low ibotstool and sat at his faet, looking up witli the 




EBNS8T LINWOOD. 298 

emiestness of troth and the confidence of innocence. Oh I he 
ceuld not help but acquit me,— - he coold not help bat pity me. 
I had done him injustice in believing it possible for him to con- 
deam me for an act of filial obedience, involving so much sotf* 
iierifice and anguish. He would dasp me to his bosom,— he 
would fold me in his arms, — - he would call me his ^own, dap- 
Bag GabrieUa.'' 

A pause, — a chilling pause succeeded the de^i-drawn breath 
wUi which I closed the confession. Cbld, bitter cold, fell that 
aflmce on my hoping, trembling, yet gbwing heart He was 
leaning on his elbow, — his hand covered his brow. 

^ Ernest,'' at length I said, ^ you have heard my explanation. 
Am I, or am I not, acquitted ? " 

He started as if from a trance, clasped his hands tig^y to- 
gether, and lifted them above his head, — then springing up^ 
be drew back from me, as if I were a viper coiling at his feet 

^ Your father I " he exclaimed with withering scorn* ^ Your 
fiUher! The tale is marvellously conceived and admirably 
related. Do you expect me to believe that that bold libertine, 
who made you the object of his unrepressed admiration, was 
your father? Why, that man was not old enough to be your 
fiuher, — and if ever profligacy was written on a human coun- 
iomnce, its danming lines were traced on his. Your fetherl 
Away with a subterfuge so vile and fiimsy, a &lsehood so wan- 
ton and sacrilegious." 

Should I live a thousand years, I never could forget the awful 
fihock of tliat moment, the whirlwind of passion that raged in 
my bosom. To be accused of falsehood and such a felsehood, 
by Ernest, after my truthful, impassioned revelation;— it was 
what I could not, would not bear. My heart seemed a boiUng 
cauldron, whence the hot blood rushed in burning streams to 
face, neck, and hands. My eyes flashed, my lips quivered with 
indignation. 

'^ Is it I, your wife, whom you accuse of felsehood?** I ex- 
daimed; "dare you repeat an accusation so viie?" 

'^Did you not od a falsehood, when yon so grossly deceived 
ma, by pretending to go on an enand of benavoknoe, when 

25 ♦ 



294 ERME8T LINWOOD. 

in reality you were bound to a disgraceful assignation? What 
veteran intriguante ever arranged any thing more coolly, mort 
deliberately ? Even if the story of that man*s being your t'atlier 
were not false, what trust could I ever rei)0sc in one so skilled 
in deception, so artful, and so perfidious ? " 

"Ernest, you will rue what you say now, to 3'our dying dav; 
you will rue it at the judgment bar of heaven ; you are doing 
me the cruellest wrong man ever inflicted on woman." 

The burning current in my veins was cooling, — a chill, be- 
numbing sense of injustice and injury was settling on eveiy fttl- 
iiig. I looked in his face, and its classic beauty vanished, even 
its lineaments seemed changed, the illusion of love was passing 
away ; with indescribable horror I felt this ; it was like the opening 
of a deep, dark abyss. Take away my love for Ernest, and wha: 
would be left of life ? Darkness — despair — annihilation. I 
thought not, recked not then of his lost love for me ; I only 
dreaded ceasing to love hiniy dreaded that congelation of the 
heart more terrible than death. 

" Where is the note ? " he asked suddenly. " Show me the 
wan'ant for this secret meeting." 

" I destroyed it." 

Again a thunder-gust swept over his countenance. I ought 
to have kept it, I ought to have anticipated a moment like thi^, 
but my judgment was obscure by fear. 

" You destroyed it ! " 

" Yes ; and well might I dread a di&iclosure which has brougiit 
on a scene so humbling to us both. Let it not continue ; yoo 
have heard from me nothing but plain and holy truth ; I liave 
notliing to say in my defence. Ilad I acted diiTercntly, }'0U 
yourself would despise jmd contemn me." 

*' Had you come to me as you ought to have done, asking my 
counsel and assistance, 1 would have met the wretch who sought 
to beguile you ; I would have detected the impostor, if you indeed 
believed the tale ; I would have saved you from the shame of a 
public exposure, and myself the misery, the tortures of this 
hour." 

'* Did he not threaten your life and his own ? Did he not 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 295 

i^peal to me in the most solemn and awful manner not to be* 
traj him ? ^ 

^ You might have known the man who urged you to deceive 
your husband to be a villain." 

^ Alas ! alas I I know him to be a villain ; and yet he is my 
fiUher." 

^^ He is not your father ! I know he is not I would swear 
it before a court of justice. I would swear it before the chan- 
cery of the skies ! " 

^ Would to heaven that your words were true. Would to 
heaven my being were not derived from such a polluted source. 
But I know too well that he %$ my father ; and that he has en- 
tailed on me everlasting sorrow. You admit, that if he is an 
impostor, I was myself deceived. Yon recall your fearful accu- 
sation." 

^ My God ! " he exclaimed, clasping his hands, and looking 
wildly upwards, " I know not what to believe. I would give 
worlds, were they mine, for the sweet confidence forever lost I 
The cloud was passing away from my soul. Sunshine, hope, 
love, joy, were there. I was wrapped in the dreams of Elysium I 
Why Iiave you so cruelly awakened me ? If you had deceived 
me once, why not go on ; deny the accusation ; fool, dupe me, 
— do any thing but convince me that where I have so blindly 
worj.hipped, I have been so treacherously betrayed." 

I pitied him, — from the bottom of my soul I pitied him, 
his countenance expressed such exceeding bitter anguish. I 
saw that {)as.<ion obscured liis reason ; tliat while under its do- 
minion he was incapable of perceiving the truth. I remem- 
bcre<l the warning accents of his mother : " You have no right 
to complain." I remembered her Christian injunction, ^ to en- 
dure all ; " and my own promise, with God's help, to do it. All 
at once, it seemed as if my guardian angel stood before me, with 
a countenance of celestial sweetness shaded by sorrow ; and I 
trembled ns I gazed. I liad bowed my shoulder to the cross ; 
but as soon as the burden galled and oppressed me, I had 
hurled it from me, exclaiming, "it was greater than I could 
bear." I fiad deceived, though not betrayed him. I hiul put 



296 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

myself in the power of a villain, and exposed myself to the 
tongue of slander. I had expected, dreaded hia anger; aod 
was it not partly just ? 

As these thoughts darted through my mind with the swift- 
ness and power of lightning, love returned in all its living 
warmth, and anguish in proportion to the wound it had received. 
I was borne down irresistibly by the weight of my emotiooSi 
My knees bent under me. I bowed my face on the sofa ; and 
tears, hot and fast as tropic rain, gushed from my eyes. I wept 
for liim even more than myself, — wept for the ** dark-spotted 
flower " twined with the roses of love. 

I heard him walking the room with troubled steps ; . and 
every step sounded as mournful to me as the earth-fall on the 
cofiin-lid. Their echo was scarcely audible on the soft, yielding 
carpet ; yet they seemed loud and heavy to my excited ear. 
Tlien I heard him approach the sofa, and stop, close to the spot 
where I knelt. My heart almost ceased beating ; when he 
suddenly knelt at my side, and put his arms around me. 

" Gabriella ! " said he, " if I have done you wrong, may God 
forgive me ; but I never can forgive myself." 

Accents of love issuing from the grave oould hardly have 
been more thrilling or unexpected. I turned, and leaning my 
head on his shoulder, I felt myself drawn closer and closer to 
the lieart irom which I believed myself for ever estranged. I 
entreated his forj^iveness for having deceived him. I told him, 
fur I b(?lievcd it then, that the purity of the motive did not jus- 
tify the act; and I promised in the most solemn manner never 
Mgain, und<T any circumstances, to bind myself to do any thing 
unknown to him, or even to act 6|)ontancously without his 
knowledge. In the rapture of reconciliation, I was willing to 
*ii\ii any pledge as a security for love, without realizing that 
jealousy was a Shylock, exacting the fulfilment of the bond, — 
the pound of flesh ** nearest the heart" Yea, more exacting 
still, for /le paused, when forbidden to spill the red life-drops, 
and droi)ped the nmrderous knife. 

And Ernest, — with what deep self-abasement he acknowl- 
edged the errors into which blind passion had led him. With 




EBNE8T LINWOOD. 297 

what angalsh he reflected on the disgraceful charge he had 
brought against me. Yea ; even with tears, he owned his injua- 
tice and madness, and hegged me to forget and forgive. 

** What have I done ? " he cried, when, afler our passionate 
emotions having subsided, we sat hand in hand, still pale and 
trembling, but subdued and grateful, like two mariners escaped 
from wreck, watching the billows roaring back from the shore. 
** What have I done, that this curse should be entailed upon me ? 
In these paroxysms of madness, I am no more master of my- 
self than the maniac who hurls his desperate hand in the face 
of Onmipotence. Reason has no power, — love no influence* 
Dark clouds rush across my mind, shutting out the light of 
truth. My heart fireezes, as in a wintry storm. O, Grabriellal 
you can have no conception of what I suffer, while I writhe in 
the tempter's grasp. It is said Grod never allows man to be 
tempted beyond his powers of resistance. I dare not question 
the word of the Most High, but in the hour of temptation I 
feel like an infant contending with the Philistine giant. But, 
oh ! the joy, the rapture when the paroxysm is past, — when 
light dawns on the darkness, when warmth comes meltingly over 
the ice and snow, when reason resumes its sway, and love its em- 
pire, — oh ! my beloved ! it is life renewed — it is a resur- 
rection from the dead, — it is Paradise regained in the heart." 

Those who have floated along on a smooth, tranquil tide, 
clear of the breakers and whirlpools and rocks, or whose bark 
has lain on stagnant waters, on which a green and murky shade 
is beginning to gather, with no breeze to fan them or to curl the 
dull and lifeless pool, will accuse me of exaggeration, and say 
such scenes never occurred in the actual experience of wedded 
life ; that I am writing a romance, instead of a reality. 

I answer them, that I am drawing the sketch as faithfully as 
th<^ urtirt, who transfers the living form to the canvas ; that as 
it is sciircely possible to exaggerate the dying agonies of the 
malefactor transfixed by the dagger, and writhing in protracted 
tortures, that the painter may immortalize himself by the death- 
throes on which he is gazing ; so the agonies of him, 

" Who doubts, yot dotes, raipects, yet fondly loves/' 



298 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

cannot be described in colors too deep and strong. PrometlieQi 
bound to the rock, with the beak of the vulture in his bleeding 
breast, suffering daily renewing pangs, his wounds healed only 
to be torn open afresh, is an emblem of the victim of thit 
vulture passion, which the word of Grod declares to be cruel and 
insatiable as the grave. 

No ; my pen is too weak to describe either the terrors of the 
storm or the halcyon peace, the heavenly joy that succeeded. I 
yielded to the exquisite bliss of reconciliation, without daring to 
give one glance to the future. I had chosen my destiny. I had 
said, " Let me be loved, — I ask no more ! ** 

I was loved, even to the madness of idolatry. My prayer 
was granted. Then let me ^ lay my hand upon my mouth, and 
my mouth in the dust." I had rather be the stormy petre^ 
whose wings dip into ocean's foaming brine, than the swallow 
nestling under the barn-eaves of the farmer, or in the chimney 
of the country homestead, — 



" Better to stand tho lightning's shock. 
Than moaldcr piccomeal on the rock. 



»» 




CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

It was fortunate for me that Margaret was absent daring 
this exciting scene. When she returned, she was too much oc- 
cupied with relating the pleasures she had enjoyed to think of 
what might have occurred in her absence. 

^ I am dying with impatience,'' she cried, ^ perfectly consuming 
with curiosity. Here is a letter from my mother, in which she 
says a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, is coming to the 
city, and that she has requested him to take charge of me back 
to Boston. She does not mention his name, and I have not the 
most remote idea who he is. She says she is very happy 
that her wild girl should be escorted by a person of so much 
dignity and worth. Dignity I I expect he is one of the ex- 
presidents or wise statesmen, whom Mrs. Linwood has recom- 
mended to my patronage. I have a great admiration for great 
men, large, tall men, men whose heads you can distinguish in 
a crowd and see in a distant procession. They look as if 
they could protect one in the day of trouble.** 

" Do you ever think of such a day, Margaret ? *• 

" Sometimes I do. I think more than you give me credit for. 
I can think more in one minute than you slow folks can in a 
week. Who can this be ? I remember a description I admire 
very much. It is in some old poem of Scott's, I believe, — 

' Bold, firm, and high, hiB stature tall/ 

did sometliing, looked like something, I have forgotten what I 
know it was something grand, however." 

^ You must be thinking of Mr. Begulus," said I, laughing, 
as memory brought before me some of his inimitable quackeries. 
^ lie id the tallest gentleman I have ever seen, and though 



300 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

not very graceful, has a very imposing figure, especially in a 
crowd." . 

" I think Mr. Regulus one of the finest looking men I era 
saw," cried Madge. " He has a head very much like AVeb- 
ster's, and his eyebrows are exactly like his. If he were in i 
conspicuous station, every one would be raving about his moun- 
tiiinous head and cavernous eyes and majestic figure. He is 
worth a dozen of some people, who shall be nameless. I Lave 
no doubt he will be president of the United States, one of these 
days." 

" I never heard you make so sensible a remark, Marga- 
ret. I thought you were amusing yourself with my re- 
spected teacher. I am glad you appreciate his uncommon 
merits." 

Madge laughed very loud, but she actually blushed. The 
first symptom of "womanhood I had ever seen her exhibit ! It 
was a strange phenomenon, and I marvelled what it could mean. 

To my unutterable astonishment and delight, a few evenings 
after, my quondam preceptor was ushered into the parlor ; and 
strangely looked his tall, large figure in the midst of the orien- 
tal lightness and splendor through which it moved. After 
greeting me with the most heartfelt feeling, and Madge with a 
liali' .sliy, half dignified manner, he gazed around him with the 
simplicity and wondering admiration of a child. He was prob- 
ably comparing the beautiful drapery, that seemed like the 
azure robe of night with its stars of glory gleaming through, 
with the plain green curtains that shaded the windows of the 
academy, the graceful and luxurious divan with the high-backed 
chair which was my village throne. 

" l>cautiful, chai-ming I " he exclaimed, rubbing his hands 
slowly and gently. ** You remind me of the queen of a fairy 
palace. I shall not dare to call you my child or httle girl again. 
Scherezade or Fatima will seem more appropriate." 

" Oh no, Mr. Regulus I I had ratlier hear you call me child, 
than any thing else in the world. It carries me back to the 
dear old academy, the village green, the elm trees' shade, and 
all the sweet memories of youth." 




BBNB8T LINWOOD. 801 

^ One would think you had a long backward journey to take, 
firom the saddened heights of experience,'' said Ernest; and 
tliere was that indescribable something in his voice and oounte- 
jnanoey which I had learned too well to interpret, that told me 
be was not pleased with my remark. He did not want me to 
bave a memory further back than my first meeting with him, — 
m hope with which he was not intertwined. 

''You may call me child, Mr. Begulus, as much as you 
please,'* cried Madge, her eyes sparkling with unusual brillian- 
cy. ** I wish I were a httle school-girl again, privileged to romp 
as much as I pleased. When I did any thing wrong then, it 
was always passed over. 'Oh! she's but a child, she will 
get sobered when she is grown.' Now if I laugh a little louder 
and longer than other people, they stare and lift up their eyea, 
and I have no doubt pray for me as a castaway from grace and 
favor." 

^ Margaret ! " said I, reproachfully. 

** There ! exactly as I described. Every sportive word I 
utter, it is Margaret, or Madge, or Meg, in such a grave, rebuk- 
ing tone ! " 

^* Perhaps it is only when you jest on serious subjects, thai 
you meet a kindly check," observed Mr. Regulus, with grave 
simplicity ; ^' there are so many legitimate themes of mirth, so 
many light frameworks, round which the flowers of wit and 
fancy can twine, it is better to leave the majestic temple of re- 
ligion, untouched by the hand of levity." 

'* I did not intend to speak profanely," said Margaret, hastily, 
— and the color visibly deepened on her cheek ; ^ neither did I 
know that you were a religious character, Mr. Begulus. I 
thought you were a very good sort of man, and all that ; but 
'^ did not think you had so much of the minister about you." 

^ It is a great pity. Miss Margaret, that interest in religion 
should be considered a minister's exclusive privilege. But I 
hope I have not said any thing wounding. It was far from my 
intention. I am a sad blunderer, however, as Grabriella knows 
full well" 

I was charmed with my straightforward, simple, and e x ce l l e nt 

26 



302 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

teacher. I had never seen him appear to sacli adyantage. 11^ 
had on an entirely new suit of the finest black broaddotb, tbs 
fitted him quite a la mode ; a vest of the most dazzling wbit^ 
ness ; and his tiiick black hair had evidently been under tbe 
smoothing hands of a fashionable barber. His bead seemed 
mucli reduced in size ; while his massy, intellectual forehead 
displayed a bolder sweep of outline, relieved of the shadowi 
that obscured its phrenological beauty. 

lie had seen Mrs. Lin wood and Edith in Boston. Thej 
were both well, and looking anxiously forward to the summer 
reunion at Grandison Place. Dr. llarlowe seat me many chl^ 
aci^Tistic messages, — telUng me my little rocking-chair was 
wjiiting ibr me at my favorite window, and that he had not 
lean ltd to rub his shoes on the mat, or to hang up his hat yei. 

** Does he call me the wild-cat, still?" asked Madge. 

'• I believe so. He told me to say that he had his house re- 
paired, so that you could visit him without endangering Mrs. 
llarlowe's china." 

** The monster ! Well, he shall give me a new name, when 
I see him again. But tell me, Mr. Regulus, who is the very 
digiiiiied and excellent gentleman whom mamma says is coming 
to escort me home ? I have been expiring with curiosity to 

klKMV." 

*' I do not know of any one answering to that description, 
Mi:-s .Margaret," replied Mr. Regulus, bluslung, and jyasslng his 
hands over Lis knees. " I saw your mother at Mrs. LinwoodV; 
ami when Aw leniiied I was coming to this city, she said sbo 
woiiKl be very much obliged to mc, if I would take charge of 
you. on my return." 

" 'Hum you did not come on purpose for me, Mr. Regulus," 
.^aid -Aladgj-, witli a saucy smile. 

" ( >Ii no, — 1 had business, and a very earnest desire to .sc-c 
my y(»ung friend, Gabriella. if I can, however, combine the 
uset'iil wiih the agreeable, I sliall be very well pleased." 

'* IJy the useful, you mean, seeing me safe in my mamms 
arms/" said Madge, demurely. 

" Certainly, Miss Margaret." 




XRHX8T LINWOOD. 808 

Even Ernest laughed at this peculiar compliment; and 
Madge bit her lips, half in vexation, half in merriment. I 
hardly knew what to think of Margaret She was certainly 
tbe most eccentric being I ever saw. She, who seemed to care 
ftr the opinion of no one, — reckless, defying, and app|u^entlj 
heartless, showed more deference for Mr. Begulus, more sdid- 
tode for his attention, than I had ever seen her manifest for 
mnother's. Was it possible that this strange, wild girl, was a^ 
tiAed by the pure, unvarnished qualities of this ^ great grown 
boy," as Dr. Ilarlowe called him ? It is impossible to account 
fiir the fascination which one being exercises over another; 
and from the days of Desdemona to the present hour, we sel- 
dom hear of an approaching marriage, without hearing at the 
same time some one exclaim, ^ that it is strange, — most pass- 
ing strange." 

The moment I admitted the possibility of his exercising a 
secret influence over Madge, I looked upon him with new inter- 
est. He had the intense, deep-set eye, which is said to tame the 
wild beasts of the forest, and perhaps its glance had subdued 
the animal nature that triumphed over her more ethereal attri^ 
botes. I hoped most devoutly that my supposition might be 
true ; for genuine affection exalts both the giver and receiver, 
and opens ten thousand avenues to joy and good. 

^ You do not look quite so rosy as you did in the country," 
said he, looking earnestly at me. ^ The dissipation of a city 
life does not agree with our wild-wood flowers. They need a 
purer atmosphere." 

** Gabriella is taken very good care of^" cried Madge, looking 
significantly at Ernest ^ She is not allowed to hurt herself by 
dissipation, I assure you." 

*^ Do you imply that she needs a restraining influence to keep 
her from excess ? " asked Ernest He spoke lightly, but he 
never spoke without meaning something. 

^ No, indeed. She is the nuxlel wife of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. She is * wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best* Solomon 
must have seen her with prophetic eye, when he wrote the last 
chapter of Froverbe." 



304 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

** !Mock praise is the severest censure, Margaret," said L 

*' No such thing. I mean every word I say. Show me a 
young and beautiful wife, almost bride, immuring herself as voa 
do, and never seen in public but clinging to her husband'^ ann, 
shrink iug from admiration and blushing at a glance, and I will 
show you another Solomon." 

** Though you may speak in ridicule," said Ernest, with a con- 
tracted brow, " you have awarded her the most glorious meed 
woman can receive. The fashion that sanctions a wife in 
receiving the attentions of any gentleman but her husband, is 
the most corrupt and demondizing in the world. It makes 
wedded vows a mockery, and marriage an unholy and heartless 
rite." 

** Do you expect to revolutionize society? " she asked. 

'' No ; but I expect to keep my wife unspotted from the 
world." 

'' I am glad she has so watchful a guardian,'' said Mr. Rego- 
lus, regarding me with his old-fashioned, earnest tenderness. 
" We liear very flattering accounts," he added, addressing me, 
'* of our young friend, Richard Clyde. He will return next 
summer, aft(T a year's absence, having acquired as much bene- 
iit as most young men do in two or three." 

I could not help blushing, for I knew the eyes of Ernest 
were on me. lie could never hear the name of Richard with 
indilierenee, and the prospect of his return was far from being 
a source of pleasure to him. Richard was very dear to me as 
a ii iend, and I was proud of his growing honors. Yet I dared 
nt)t niiinifest the interest I felt. 

Never had I been so supremely happy, as since my reconcil- 
iatiou with Ernest. I felt that he had something to forgive, 
mueli to fi)rgive, and that he was magnanimous to do it, consid- 
ering the weakness with which he struggled. Never had I 
loved him so entirely, or felt such confidence in my future hap- 
})iness. Yet the moment the name of Richard Clyde wts 
mention(.*d, it sound(?d like a prophecy of evil. 

Oil that he would transfer to Edith the affections given to 
me, and then he could bind Ernest to his heart by the sacred 
bonds of fraternity ! 




CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The &w days which Mr. Begalas passed in the citj, were 
bappj ones to me. He had never visited it before ; and Ernest 
ahowed him more respect and attention than I had seen him 
bestow on other men. I had never betrayed the rwMmct of the 
academy ; and not dreaming that my preceptor had ever been 
my lover, he tolerated the regard he manifested, believing it 
partook of the paternal character. Perhaps, had ho remained 
long^ he would have considered even this an infringement on 
his rights; but, to my unspeakable joy, nothing occurred to 
cloud our domestic horizon during his stay. Once or twice 
when the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, I saw the 
shadow of coming events on the brow of Ernest ; but it passed 
away, and the evil day of his return seemed very far off. 

I could not regret Margaret's departure. There was so en- 
tire a dissimilarity in our characters, and though I have no 
doubt she cherished for me all the friendship she was ciqpable 
of feeling, it was of that masculine cast, that I could not help 
shrinking from its manifestations. Her embraces were so 
stringent, her kisses so loud and resounding, I could not receive 
ihcm without embarrassment, though no one but Ernest might 
be near. 

The evening before she lef^, she was in an unusually gentle 
mood. We were alone in my chamber, and she actually sat 
still several moments without speaking. This was something 
as ominous as the pause that precedes the earth's spasmodic 
throes. I have not spoken of Margaret's destructive propensi- 
ties, but they were developed in a most extraordinary manner. 

26 * ^^^> 



806 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

She had a habit of seizing hold of every thing she looked ai, 
and if it chanced to be of delicate materials, it oAen shivered it 
her grasp. I do not wonder poor Mrs. Harlowe trembled for 
her glass and china, for scarcely a day passed that her paih 
was not strewed with ruins, whose exquisite fragments betrayed 
the costly fabric she had destroyed. Now it was a beaotifbl 
porcelain vase, which she would have in her hands to exanune 
and admire, then an alabaster statuette or frail crystal om- 
ment. If I dropped a kid glove, she invariably attempted*lo 
put it on, and her hand being much larger than mine, she as 
invariably tore it in shreds. She would laugh, roll up her eyes, 
and exclaim, " shocking ! why this could not be worth any 
thing ! I will let it alone next time." 

I cannot say but that these daily proofs of carelessness and 
destructiveness were trials of the temper and constant gradngs 
on the nerves. It was -difficult to smile with a frowning heart, 
for such wanton disregard for the property and feelings of oth- 
ers must pain that nice moral sense which is connected with the 
great law of self-preservation. 

This evening, she seized a beautiful perfume bottle that stood 
on my toilet, and opening it, spilled it half on her handkerchief^ 
though one drop would fill the whole apartment with richest 
odor. 

" Do not break that bottle, IVIargaret ; it is very beautiful, 
and Ernest gave it me this very morning." 

" Oh ! nonsense, I am the most careful creature in the world. 
Once in a while, to be sure, — but then accidents will happen, 
you know. Gabriella I have something to tell you. Mr. 
Iliirland wants me to marry him, — ha, ha, ha I" 

" Well, you seemed pleased, Margaret. He is an accom- 
l)lislie(l gentleman, and an agreeable one. Do you like him?" 

** No ! I liked him very well, till he wanted me to like him 
better, and now I detest him. Ho is all froth, — does not 
know much more than I do myself. No, no^-^that will 
never do." 

'* Perhaps you like some one else better ? " said I, thinUng if 




BRNB8T LINWOOD. 807 

liargaret was ever caught in the matrimonial nooee, it most be 
a iasso, such as are thrown round the neck of the wild horses 
of the prairies. 

^ What makes you say that ? ** she asked, quickly, and my 
beautiful essence bottle was demolished by some sudden jerk 
which brought it in contact with the marble table. ^ The brittle 
thing ! " she exclaimed, tossing the fragments on the carpet, at 
the risk of cutting our slippers and wounding our feet '^I 
i^ld not thank Ernest for such baby trifles, — I was scarcely 
touching it What makes you think I like anybody better ? " 

** I merely asked the question,** I answered, closing my work 
box, and drawing it nearer, so that her depredating fingers could 
not reach it. She had already destroyed half its contents. 

^ I do like somebody a great deal better,** she said, tossing her 
hair over her forehead and veiling her eyes ; ^ but if you 
guessed till doomsday, you could not imagine who it is.'* 

^ I pity him, whoever it may be," said I, laughing. 

"Why?** 

"• You are no more fit to be a wife, Madge, than a child of five 
years old. You have no more thought or consideration, fore- 
sight or care.** 

"* I am two years older than you are, notwithstanding.'* 

" I tear if you live to be a hundred, you will never have the 
qualities necessary to secure your own happiness and that of 
another in the close, knitting bonds of wedded life.** 

I s[)oke more seriously than I intended. I was thinking of 
Mr. Regiilus, and most devoutly hoped for his sake, this wild, 
nondescript girl would never reach his heart through the medium 
of his vanity. She certainly paid him the most dangerous kind 
of flattery, because it was indirect 

" You do not know what a sensible man might make of me,** 
she said, shaking her head. " I really wish, — I do not know, 
— but I sometimes think ** — 

She stopped and leaned her head on her hand, and her hair 
fell shadingly over her face. 

" What, Margaret ? I should like exceedingly to know your 
inmost thoughts and feelings. Tou seem to think and feel so 



808 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

little ; — and yet, in every woman's heart there mast be a fomh 
tiiin, — or else what a desert waste, — what a dreary wilderness 
it must be." 

She did not speak, but put both hands over her face and beni 
it downwards, wliile her shoulders moved up and down with a 
8pa>inodic motion. I thought she was shaking with suppressed 
lau<i;liter; and though I could not imagine what had excited 
h(.T mirth, I had known her convulsed by a ridiculous thought of 
her own, in the midst of general seriousness. 

But all at once unmistakable sobs broke forth, and I found 
she was crying heartily, genuinely, — crying without any selt- 
control, with all the abandonment of a child. 

** ]Margaret ! " I exclaimed, laying my hand gently on her 
quivering shoulder, "what is the nuitter? What can hare 
excited you in this manner? Don't, Madge, — you terriiy 
me." 

" I can't help it," she sobbed. " Now I have began, I can't 
stop. O dear, what a fool I am! There is notlung the 
matter with me. I do n't know what makes me cry ; but I 
can't help it, — I hate myself, — I can't bear myself, and yet 
I can't change myself. Nobody tliat I care for will ever love 
me. I am such a hoyden — such a romp — I disgust every 
one that comes near me ; and yet I can't be gentle and sweet 
like you, if I die. I used to think because I made every- 
body Liugli, they liked me. People said, ' Oh I there 's M:idge, 
she will krop us alive.' And I thought it was a fine thing to 
be called Wild Madge, and Meg the Dauntless ; I begin to hate 
tlie names ; I bi'gin to blush when I think of myself." 

And ]Marj;aret lifted her head, and the feelings of hitely 
awakened womanhood crimsoned her cheeks, and streamed from 
her cy{}:i. I was electriiied. What prophet hand had smitten 
the rock ? What power had drawn up the rosy fluid from the 
Artesian well of her heart ? 

" My dear Margaret," I cried, " I hail this moment as the 
dawn of a new life in your soul. Your childhood has lingered 
long, but the moment you feel that you have the heart of a 
woman, you will discard the follies of a child. Now you b^ 




BSHB8T LIHWOOD. 809 

to Ihrey wlieii jou are conscious of the golden moments joa 
bftve wasted, the noble capacities you have never yet exerted. 
Oh Margaret, I feel more and more every day I live, that I 
ifas bom for something more than the enjoyment of the passing 
moment, — that life was given for a more exalted purpose thaa 
aelf-gratification, and that as we use or abuse this gift of Grod, 
we become heirs of glory or of shame.'' 

Margaret listened with a subdued countenance and a km^ 
dflfcwn sigh. She strenuously wiped away the traces of her 
tears, and shook back the hair fixHU her brow, with a resolute 
motion. 

'^Tou despise me — I know you do," she said, Roomily. 

^ No, indeed," I answered, ^I never liked you half as well 
beiwe ; I doubted your sensibility. Now, I see you can feel, 
mnd feel acutely. I shall henceforth think of yon with interest, 
and speak of you with tenderness." 

*^ You are the dearest, sweetest creature in the world," she 
exclaimed, putting both arms around me with unwonted gentle- 
ness; ^ I shall always love you, and will try to remember all 
you have said to me to-night. We shall meet in the summer, 
and you shall see, oh yes, you shall see. Dear me — what a 
fright I have made of myself." 

She had risen, and was glancing at herself in the Psyche, 
which, supported by two charming Cupids, reflected the figure 
full length. 

** I never will cry agun if I can help it," she exclaimed. 
^ These horrid red circles round the eyes, — and my eyes, too» 
are as red as a rabbit's. The heroines of novels are always 
said to look lovelier in tears ; but you are the only persoii I 
ever saw who looked pretty after weeping." 

" Did you ever see me weep, Madge ? " 

^ I have noticed more than you think I have, — and believe 
me, GrabrieUa, Ernest will have to answer for every tear he 
draws from those angel eyes of yours." 

^ Margaret, you know not what you say. Ernest loves me 
ten thousand times better than I deserve. He lavishes on ma 
a wealth of love that humbles me with a cooackmsiiess of mj 



310 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

own demerits. His only fault is loving me too welL Never, 
never breathe before Mrs. Linwood or Edith, — before a hnman 
being, the sentiment you uttered now. Never repeat the idle 
gosiiiip you may have heard. If you do speak of us, say that I 
have known woman's happiest, most bhssful lot And that I 
would rather be the wife of Emcst one year, than live a life of 
endless duration with any other." 

^' It must be a pleasant thing to be loved," said Margaret, and 
her blaek eyes flashed tlux)ugh the red shade of tears. 

"And to love," I repeated. " It is more blessed to give, than 
to receive." 

A sympathetic chord was touched, — there was masic in it 
Who ever saw a person weep genuine tears, without feeling the 
throbbings of humanity, — the drawings of the chain that bmds 
together all the sons and daughters of Adam ? If there are 
such beings, I pity them. 

Let them keep as far from me as the two ends of the rainbow 
arc from each other. The breath of the Deity has frozen 
withm them. 




CHAPTER XL. 

The morning of Margaret's departure, when Mr. B^ulus 
was standing with gloves and hat in hand waiting her readiness, 
it happened that I was alone in the parlor with him a few mo- 
ments. 

** You will have a pleasant journey," said L " You will find 
Margaret an entertaining companion." 

" O yes ! " he answered, with a slight shrug of the shoul- 
ders, " but I fear she will excite too much remark by her wild 
antics. I do not like to be noticed by strangers." 

^' She will accommodate herself to your wishes, I know she 
will. You have great influence over her." 

*' ^le I oh no I " he cried, with equal surprise and simplicity. 

" Yes, indeed you have. Talk to her rationally, as if you 
had confidence in her good-sense, Mr. Regulus, and you will 
really find some golden wheat buried in the chaff. Talk to her 
feelingly, as if you appealed to her sensibility, and you may 
discover springs where you believe no waters flow." 

^ It is like telling me to search for spring flowers, when the 

ground is all covered with snow, — to look at the moon shining, 

when the night is as dark as ebony. But I am thinking of 

you, Gabriella, more than of her. I rejoice to find you the 

same artless child of nature that sat at my feet years ago in 

the greenwood shade. But beautiful as is your palace home, I 

long to see you again in our lovely valley among the birds and 

the flowers. I long to see you on the green lawn of Grandison 

Place." 

^ I do feel more at home at Grandisoii Fkoe/* I answered. 

(»U) 



312 ERNEST LIMWOOD. 

" I would give more for the velvet lawn, the dear old elm, the 
oaken avenue, than for all the magnificence of this princelj 



mansion." 



»9 



" But you are happy here, my child ? 

" I have realized the brightest dreams of youth.' 

" God be praised 1 — and you have forgiven my past folly,— 
you think of me as preceptor, elder brother, friend." 

** My dear master ! " I exclaimed, and tears, such as glisten 
in the eyes of childhood, gathered in mine. I was a child 
again, in my mother's presence, and the shade-trees of the gray 
cottage seemed rustling around me. 

The entrance of Margaret interrupted the conversation. She 
never api)eared • to better advantage than in her closely fitting 
riding dress, which displayed the symmetry of her round and 
elastic tigure. I looked at her with interest, for I had seen 
those saucy, brilliant eyes suffused with tears, and those red, 
merry lips quivering with womanly sensibility. 1 hoped 
good things of Margaret, and though I could not regret her 
dej)arture, I thought leniently of her faults, and resolved to 
forget them. 

*' Just like Margaret," said I, gjithering up the beautiful dra- 
pe n% on which slie liad trodden as she left the room, xuid rent 
from the shaft tliat confined its folds. She stopped not to see 
tlie mischief she had done, for she was so accustomed to hear a 
crash and da^h behind her, it is not probable she even no- 
ticed it. 

*• Thank God ! " exclaimed Ernest, before the echo of their 
departing footsteps had died on the ear. "Thank God! we arc 
once more alone." 

Mr. Ilarland had visited us but seldom since the words of pas- 
sion which might have been followed by a scene of strife, but for 
woman's restraining presence, had fallen from the lips of Ernest 
One evening, he called and asked a private interview with Er- 
nes!, and they immediately passed into the library. I saw that 
his countenance was disturbed, and vague apprehensions filled 
my mind. I could hear their voices in earnest, excited tones; 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 313, 

and though I knew there was no revelation to be made which 
Ernest bad not already heard from me, I felt a conviction 
amounting to certainty, that this mysterious interview had some 
connection with my unhappy father, and boded evil to me. Mr. 
Harland did not probably remain more than an hour, but every 
moment seemed an hour, drawn out by suspense and apprehen- 
sion. He reentered the parlor with Ernest, but lefl immediate- 
ly ; while Ernest walked silently back and forth, as he always 
did when agitated, — his brows contracted with stem, intense 
thought He was excessively pale, and though his eyes did 
not emit the lightning glance of passion, they flashed and burned 
like heated metal. 

I dared not ask him the cause of his emotion, I could only 
watch him with quick-drawn breath, and lips sealed with dread. 
Suddenly he put his hand in his bosom, and snatching thence 
the fatal casket I had Icfl in my father's crime-stained hands, 
he hurled it to the floor, and trampled it under his feet. 

" Behold," he cried, with inexpressible bitterness and grief, 
^ my mother's gift, her sacred bridal gift, — desecrated, polluted, 
lost, — worse than lost I I will not upbraid you. I would spare 
you the pang I myself endure, — but think of the agonies in 
which a spirit like mine must writhe, to know that your name, 
tliat tho name of my wife is blazoned to the world, associated 
with that of a vile forger, an abandoned villain, whose crimes 
an* even now blackening the newspapers, and glutting the greedy 
api>etite of slander ! O rash, misguided girl I what demon tempted 
you to such fatal imprudence ? " 

I .«at immovable, frozen, my eyes fixed upon the carpet, my 
hands as cold as ice, and my lips, as they touched each other, 
chill :ts icicles. In moments of sudden anguish I never lost 
con^<!iousness, as many do, but while my physical powers were 
crushed, my mind seemed to acquire preternatural sensibility. 
I suti'ered as we do in dreams, intensely, exquisitely, when 
every nerve is unsheathed, and the spirit naked to the dagger's 
stroke. He stopped as he uttered this impassioned adjuration, 
and his countenance changed instantaneously as he gazed on 



minA 



311 ERNEST LINTVOOD. 

" Cruel, cruel that I am ! " be cried, sitting down by me. 
and wrapping his arras around me ; "I did not know what I was 
saying. I meant to be gentle and forbearing, but strong passion 
rushed over me like a whirlwind. Forgive mc, Gabriella, mj 
darling, forgive me. Let tlie world say what it will, I know tkU 
you are pure and true. I care not for the money, — I care not 
for the jewels, — but an unsi)otted name. Oh ! where now are 
tlie * livea-ied angels ' that will guard it from pollution ? " 

As he folded me in his arms, and pressed his cheek to mine, 
as if strivinir to infuse into it vital warmth, I felt the electric 
fluid ilowing into my benumbed system. Whatever liad tic- 
ourred, he had not cast me off; and with him to sustain me, I wa? 
stiong to meet the exigencies of the moment. I looked up in Li? 
llici.*, and he read the expression of my soul, — I know be did, lur 
lic» clasped me closer to him, and the fire of his eyes grew dim.— 
dim, tlirongh glistening tears. And then he told me all mv 
hoeecliing glances sought. More than a week before, even 
Ixl'ure that, he had loarned that a forgery had been committed 
in his name, involving a very large sum of money. Liberal 
rewards liad boon offered for the discovery of the vilLiin, and 
that day he had been brouglit to the city. 'My diamoniLs on 
whose setting Mrs. Linwood liad had my name engraven, were 
found in liis possession. He had not spoken to me of the 
forLTciy, not wisliing to trouble me, he said, on a subject of sm-h 
niiru)!- iniportan('(\ It was the publicity given to my name, in 
assoiMalioii with his, tliat caused tlie bitterness of his aninnsh. 
And I, — I knew that my father had robbed my husband in 
the vih'sl, most insidious manner; that he had drawn upon 
hiinsilf {\\v awful doom of a forger, a dungeon home, a living 
d<'ath. 

My father ! the man whom my mother had loTed. The re- 
membrance of this lovr, so lon^r-endurinj:, so much forjrivinjr* 
hung like a glory round him. It was the halo of a saint encir- 
clinir tho l^row of liio malefactor. 

"AVill th(^y not suppose tlie jewels were stolen?" I asked. 
with tho calnint'ss of d^'sjMMiitioii. *• Surely the world cannot 
know they were given by me ; and though it is painful to be 




SBNBST LINWOOD. 815 

associated with so dark a transaction, I see not, dear Ernest^ 
whj mj reputation should be clouded by this ? " 

^ Alas ! Gabriella, — you were seen by more than one walk* 
ing with him in the park. You were seen entering the jeweller^s 
shop, and afterwards meeting him in Broadway. Even in the 
act of giving your shawl to the poor shivering woman, yoa 
were watched. You believed yourself unremarked; but the 
blind man might as well think himself unseen walking in the 
Maze of noonday, because his own eyes are bound by the fillet 
of dariuiess, as you expect to pass unnoticed through a gaping 
throng. Mr. Ilarland told me of these things, that I might bo 
prepared to repel the arrows of slander which would inevitably 
be aimed at the bosom of my wife." 

^ But you told him that it was my fisUher. That it was to 
save him from destruction I gave them. Oh Ernest, you told 
him aU ! " 

^ I liave no right to reveal your secret, Gabriella. If he bo 
indeed your father, let eternal secrecy veil his name. Would 
you indeed consent that the world should know that it was your 
father who had committed so dark a crime? Would you, 
Gabriella?" 

^ I would far rather be covered with ignominy as a daughter, 
than disgrace as a wife," I answered, while burning blushes 
dyed my cheeks at the possibility of the last. ^ The first will 
not reflect shame or humiliation on you. You have raised me 
generously, magnanimously, to your own position ; and though 
the world may say that you yielded to weakness in loving me, 
— a poor and simple girl. — Nay, nay ; I recall my words, 
Ernest ; I will not wrong myself, because clouds and daikness 
gather round me. You did not stoop^ or lower yourself, by 
wedding me. Love made us equal. My proud, aspiring love, 
looked up; yours bent to meet its worship, — and both united, 
as the waves of ocean miite, in fulness, depth, and strength,— 
and, like them, have found their leveL Let the world know 
that I am the daughter of St. James; that, moved by his 
prayers and intimidated by his threats, I met him and attempt- 
ed to save him from nun. Thej may mj that I was nurii and 



;{ : r, K K N E S T L I N W O O D . 

iinprinliMit ; but they dare not cull me guilty. There is a voice 
ill cvciy iK'aYt ^^ liicli is not palsied, or deadened, or dumb, tliat 
Avill pkad ill my dctrnce. Tli(i child who endeavoi's to shield a 
i';itlu-r Ironi destruction, liowever low and steeped in sin lie may 
br-, cannot be condemned. If I am, I care not ; but oh, Ernt>l, 
iK> your v.'ifc, ktt me not sulFer reproach, — for your sake, mj 
liU.-baud, far more than mine." 

As thus 1 plead<.;d witli all the eloquence and camci&tnes3 of 
my naturo, with my hands clasped in his, their firm, close, yet 
trout lo ibid grew liriner, closer still ; and the cloud passing away 
I'roni his eouuleuauce, it became luminous as I gazed. 

" You are right, — you are true," said he, ** my dear, my 
noble Gabriella. Iwerv sliadow of a doubt vanishes before tlie 
testimony of your unselfish lieart. Why did I not see this sub- 
joe I in the .same clear, just light ? Because my eyes are toci 
ofioii Llhidod by the mists of passion. Yes! you have poinreJ 
out the only way of extrication. The story of your moilnrV 
wroug^ will not necessarily be exposed; and if it is, the sacn-il 
;■. L^i^ oi' vour filial love will *]juard it from desecration. Vi\ 
s I Kill not remain here long. Spring will soon return ; and in 
tie >v/(M t (iuietude of rural life, we will forget the tumultuous 
scenes i>f tliis modern Babel. You will not wish to return ? " 

'' No ! never, never. That unhappy man ! what will bo liia 
(loom r 

'' I'robably life-long imprisonment. Had I known who tlie 
dVeiidor v.as, I would have prayed the winds and waves to l»€ar 
liim ti) Icelandic seas, rather tlian have had his crime publiabeJ 
to the world. It is, ho weaver, the retribution of heaven ; and 
v.e must submit." 

" It .>eems so strange," said I, *' to think of him alive, whose 
existcuee so long seemed to me a blank. When I was a child, 
I u ed to indulge in wild dreams about my unknown parent. I 
jdelun.'d him as one of the god-; of mythology, veiling his divin- 
ity in jitsh for the love of the fairest of the daughters of men. 
'Hnt my.-tery tliat v»Tai)ped his name was, to my imagination, 
like tlie cloud mantling tiie noonday sun. With such views of 
my lineage, which, though they became subdued as I grew 




SBNE8T LINWOOD* 817 

older, were still exaggerated and romantie, — think of the awful 
plunge into the disgraceful truth. It seems to me that I should 
have died on my mother's grave, had not jour arms of love 
raised me, — had jou not breathed into my ear words that called 
me back from the cold grasp of death itself. In the brightness 
of the future I forgot the gloom of the past Oh ! had I sup- 
posed that he lived, — that he would come to bring on me pub- 
lic shame and- sorrow, and through me, on you, my husband, I 
never would have exposed you to the sufferings of this night." 

And I clung to him with an entireness of confidence, a ful- 
ness of gratitude that swelled my heart almost to bursting. 
Ilis face, beaming with unclouded love and trust, seemed to me 
as the face of an angeL I cared not for obloquy or shame, 
since he believed me true. I remembered the words of the 
tender, the devoted Grertrude : — 

" I have been with thco in thine hour 
Of glory and of bliss, 
Doubt not its memory's living power 
To strengthen mo in this." 

But. though my mind was buoyed up by the exaltation of my 
feeliiig:^, my physical powers began to droop. I inherited some- 
thiii<^ of my mother*s constitutional weakness ; and, suddenly as 
the leaden weight falls when a clock has run down and the 
machinery ceases to play, a heavy burden of lethargy settled 
down u{)on me, and I was weak and helpless as a child. Dull 
pain throbbed in my brain, as if it were girdled by a hard, tight- 
ening band. 

It was several days before I left my bed, and more than a 
week before I quitted my cliamber. The recollection of Er- 
nest*d tender watchfulness during these days of illness, even 
now suffuses my eyes with tears. Had I been a dying infant 
he could not have hung over me with more anxious, nnslumber- 
ing care. Oh ! whatever were his faults, his virtues redeemed 
them all. Oh ! the unfathomable depths of his love 1 I was 
then willing to die, so fearful was I of passing out of this 
heavenly light of home joy into the coldness of doubt, the gloom 
of suspicion. 

27 • 



318 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Eme?t, witli all his proncness to exaggerate the importance 
of my actions, did not do so in reference to this unliappy trans- 
action. raragrai)li3 were inserted in the papers, in which ihe 
initials of my name were in>erted in large capitals to attrsici the 
gazing eye. The meeting in tho Park, the jewels tbund in 
the possession of the forger, the ahrupt manner in which ibej 
were taken from tlie jeweller's shop, even the gray shawl au-i 
green veil, were mimitely descrihed. Ernest had made ene- 
mies hy the haiiglity reserve of his manners and the exclusivi^ 
ness of his habits, and they stabbed him in secret where he was 
most vulnerable. 

A ln*ief sketch of the real circumstances and the causes 
which led to them, w^as published in reply. It waa written with 
manly boldness, but guanled delicacy, and rcscuetl ray nam** 
from the fierce clutch of slander. Then followed fflowinjr culo 
giums on the self-sacrificing daughter, the young and beauiifiil 
wife, till Ernest's sensitive spirit must have bled over the nuic»- 
riety given to her, whom he considered as sacred as the priestcss 
of some holy temple, and whose name was scarcely to be men- 
tioned but in prayer. 

The only comment he made on them was, — 

*• ^ly mother and Edith will see these." 

" J will write and tell them all," I answered ; "it will be too 
painful to you." 

** AVe will both write," he said; and we did. 

" You blame yourself too much," cried he, when lie perused 

mv letter. 

'* "^ ou speak too kindly, too leniently of me,** said I, after 
rca'liiiij; his; "yet I am glad and grateful. Your mother will 
ju I'lf me fiom the facts, and nothing that you or I can say will 
war]) or inlluence her judgment. She understands so clearly 
tli(^ motives of action, — she reads so closely your chanicter 
and mine, I feel that her decision will be as righteous as the 
decree of eternal justice. Oh that I were with her now, for my 
soul looks to her as an ark of safety. Like the poor weary 
do^■e, it longs to repose its drooping wings and fold them in 
iromblin![r Joy on her sheltering breast." 




• SBNE8T LINWOOD. 819 

I wQl not speak of the trial, the condemnation, or the agony 
I felt, when I learned that my father was doomed to expiate his 
crime by solitary confinement for ten long years. Could Er- 
nest have averted this fate from him, for my sake he would 
have done it ; but the majesty of the law was supreme, and no 
individual effort could change its just decree. My affections 
were not wounded, for I never could recall his image without 
personal repugnance, but my mother's remembrance was asso- 
ciated with him ; — I remembered her dying injunctions, — her 
prophetic dream. I thought of the heaven which he had for- 
feited, the God whose commandments he had broken, the 
Saviour whose mercy he had scorned. I wanted to go to 
him, — to minister to him in his lonely cell, — to try to rouse 
him to a sense of his transgressions, — to lead him to the Grod 
he had forsaken, the Redeemer he had rejected, the heaven 
from which my mother seemed stretching her spirit arms to woo 
him to her embrace. 

^ My mother dreamed that I drew him from a black abyss," 
said I to Ernest ; ^^ she dreamed that I was the guardian angel 
of his soul. Let me go to him, — let me fulfil my mission. I 
shudder when I look around me in these palace walls, and 
think that a parent groans in yonder dismal tombs." 

^I will go," replied Ernest ; ^ I will tell him your filial wish, 
and \^ I find you can do him good, I will accompany you 
there." 

^ I can do him good, — I can pity and forgive him, — I can 
talk to him of my mother, and that will lead him to think of 
heaven. *• I was sick and in prison and ye came unto me.' Oh, 
thus our Saviour said, identifying himself with the sons of ig- 
nominy and sorrow. Go, and if you find his heart softened by 
repentance, [X)ur balm and oil into the wounds that sin has 
made. Go, and let me follow." 



CHAPTER XLI. 

'^And did you see him, Ernest?'' I asked, with tremblii^ 
eafi;erness. 

*'I did, Gabriella. I went to him as your representadre, 
without one vindictive, bitter feeling. I proffered kindness, f<x^ 
giveness, and every comfort the law would permit a condemned 
criminal to enjoy. They were rejected fiercely, disdainfally,— 
he rejected them all." 

" Alas ! and me, Ernest ; does he refuse consolation firom 
me?" 

" lie will not see you. * I ask no sympathy,* he cried, in 
hoarse and sullen accents. ^I desire no fellowship; akme I 
have sinned, — alone I will suffer, — alone I will die.' Weep 
not, my Gabriella, over this hardened wretch ; I do not believe 
he is your father ; I am more and more convinced that he is so 
impostor." 

" But lie has my mother's miniature ; he recognized me from 
my resemblance to it ; he called me by name ; he knew all the 
circumstances of my infantine life. I would give worlds to be- 
lieve your assertion, but the curse clings to me. He t*, — he 
must be my father." 

'' Mr. Brahan, who knew your father personally, and who is 
deeply interested in the disclosures recently made, has visited 
him also. He says there is a most extraordinary resemblance; 
and though seventeen years of sinful indulgence leare terrible 
traces on the outward man, he does not doubt his identity. But 
I cannot, will not admit it. Think of him no more, Grabriella ; 
banish him, and every thing connected with this horrible event, 
from your mind. In other scenes you will recover fiom the 

(320) 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 821 

■hock occasioned by it ; and even now the tongue of mmor is 
Ixisj with more recent themes. Mr. Brahan will visit him from 
time to time and, if possible, learn something of the mystery 
€if his life. Whatever is learned will be cdmmanicated to me. 
What ! weeping still, my Gabriella ? " 

^ It is dr€»ulful to think of sin and crime in the abstzact; bat 
when it comes before us in the person of a father I " 

*^ No more ! no more I Dismiss the subject Let it be hence- 
forth a dark dream, forgotten if possible ; or if remembered, be it 
•8 a dispensation of Providence, to be borne in silence and sub- 
mission. Strange as it may seem, all that I have suffered of 
humiliation and angubh in this reed trial, cannot be compared 
to the agony caused by one of my own dark imaginings.*' 

I tried to obey the injunctions of Ernest ; but thou^ my 
lips were silent, it was impossible to check the current of 
thought, or to obliterate the dark remembrance of the past My 
spirits lost their elasticity, the roses on my cheek grew pale. 

Spring came, not as in the country, with the rich garniture of 
living green, clothing hill, valley, and lawn, — the blossoming of 
flowers, — the warbling of birds, — the music of waters, — and 
all the beauty, life, and glory of awakening nature. But the foun- 
tain played once more in the grotto, the vine-wreaths frolicked 
again round their graceful shells, the statues looked at their 
pure faces in the shining mural wall. 

I cared not for these. This was not my home. I saw the 
faces of Mrs. Linwood and Edith in the mirror of memory. I 
saw the purple hills, the smiling vale, the quiet churchyard, the 
white, broken shafl, glexmiing through the willow boughs, and 
the moonbeams resting in solemn glory there. 

Never shall I forget my emotions when, on quitting the city, 
I caught a glimpse of that gloomy and stupendous granite pile 
which looms up in the midst of grandeur and magnificence, an 
awful monitor to human depravity. Well does it become its 
chill, funereal name. Shadows deeper than the darkness of the 
grave hang within its huge Egyptian columns. Corruption 
more loathsome than th^ mouldering remains of mortality 
dwells in those lone and accursed oellt. I gasad on the massy 



322 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

walls, as they frowned on the soft blue sky, till their shadov 
seemed to darken the heavens. I thought of tlie inmate of ok 
lonely cell ; of the sighs and tears, the curses and wailing 
that had gone up from that abode of shame, despair, and mis- 
ery ; and I wondered why the Almighty did not rend the heav- 
ens and come down and bare the red right arm of vengeaace 
over a world so blackened by sin, so stained by crime, and so 
given up to the dominion of the spirit of evil. 

Ernest drew me back from the window of the carriage, that 
I might not behold this grim fortification against the powers ot 
darkness ; but it was not till we had quitted the walls of the 
metropolis, and inhaled a purer atmosphere, that I began to 
breathe more freely. The tender green of the fieldf, the 
freshness of the atmosphere, the indescribable odor of sprizi^ 
tluit embalmed the gale, awakened softer, happier thoagfat& 
The footsteps of divine love were visible on the landscape. 
The voice of God was heard, breathing of mercy, through the 
cool green boughs. 




CHAPTER XLII. 

Once more at Grandison Place ! Once more on the breezy 
height which commanded the loveliest valley creation ever 
formed ! Light, bloom, joy came back to eye, cheek, and heart, 
as I hailed again the scene where the day-spring of love dawned 
on my life. 

" God made the country." 

Yes ! I felt this truth in every bounding vein. " Grod made 
the country," — with its rich sweep of verdant plains, its blue 
winding streams, shedding freshness and murmuring music- 
through the smiling fields ; its silver dews, its golden sunsets, 
and all its luxuriance and greenness and bloom. The black 
shadow of the Tombs did not darken this Eden of my youth. 

Mrs. Linwood and Edith — I was with them once more. 
Mrs. Linwood, in her soft twilight robe of silver grey ; and 
Edith, with her wealth of golden locks, and eye of heaven's own 
azure. 

^' You must not leave us again," said Mrs. Linwood, as she 
clasped us both in her maternal arms. " There are but few of 
us, and wc should not be separated. Absence is the shadow of 
death, and falls coldly on the heart." 

She glanced towards Edith, whose beautiful face was paler 
and thinner than it was wont to be. She had pined for the 
brother of whom I had robbed her ; for the world offered her 
nothing to fill the void left in the depths of her loving heart 
Wc were all happier together. We cannot give oarselves 
up to the dominion of an exclusive passion, whatever it may be, 
without an outrage to nature, which sooner or later revenges the 
wrong inflicted. With all my romantic love for Ernest, i had 

(Mt) 



32 t ERNE3T LIN WOOD. 

often sighed for the companionship of one of my o\m <ex ; aii 
now, restored to Edilh, whom I luid always regarded a lilL: 
lower than the angels, I felt that if love was more rapiurou? 
than friendship, it was not more divine. 

They knew that I had suffered. They had sympathized uriii 
me, pitied me, — (if Mrs. Lin wood blamed me for imprudence, 
slie never expressed it) ; and I felt that they loved me btKer 
fur liaving pa>sed under the cloud. There was no alhi?ion 
made to the awful events which were present in tlie mind? ot" 
all, on our first reunion. If Mrs. Linwood noticed, that afw 
th<,' glow of excitement faded from my cheek it was paler than 
it was wont to be, she did not tell me so, but her kiss was m^iw 
tender, her glance more kind. There was something in LtT 
mild, expressive eyes, that I translated thus : — 

**Tliank God that another hand than Ernest's lias stolen the 
rose frc^m thy cheek of youth. Better, far better to be humbled 
by a father's crimes, than blighted by a husband's jealousy." 

This evening reminded me so much of the first I ever iias?cd 
with Ernest. He asked Edith for the music of her harp ; and 
I sat in the recess of the window, in the shadow of the curtains, 
through whose transparent drapery the moonbeams stole in and 
ki-sed my brow. Ernest came and sat down beside me, and mv 
hniid wa< clasped in his. As the sweet strains floated round iis, 
tiiey s(;eiiied to mingle whh the moonlight, and my sj)irit was 
borne iij) on waves of brightness and melody. Always before, 
will n listening to Edith's angelic voice,I liad wished for the same 
eiielianLing power. I had felt that thus I could sing, I could 
play, had art developed the gifts of nature, only witli di-cjier 
l'a>.-ioii and sensibility; but now I listened without conscioii? 
<]«'-in-, — }>as.-ive, happy, willing to receive, without desirin;i to 
inijKirt. I felt like the ])ilgnm who, after a sultry day of weari- 
iM .--, pau.-es by a eoul si>ring, and, Living him>elf down lK;iieaili 
iis gu.-liing. Millers the >tream to llow over him, — till, pene- 
trated by their freshness, Jiis soul seems a fountain of living 
waters. Oh ! the divine rapture of repose, after restlessness 
and conliiet ! I had passed the breakers. Henceforth my life 
would be calm and placid as the beams that illumined the 
night. 




BBMEST LINWOOD. 835 

And now I am tempted to laj down the pen. I wonld not 
thee, friend of my lonely hours, whoever thou art, by a 
repetition of scenes which show how poor and weak are the 
■tiongest human resolutions, when temptations assail and pas- 
dons rise with the swell and the might of the stormy billows. 
Bot if I record weaknesses and errors, such as seldom sadden 
the annals of domestic life, it is that God may be glorified in 
the humiliation of man. It is that the light of the sun of 
righteousness may be seen to arise with healing in his beamSy 
while the mists of error and the clouds of passion are left roll* 
log below. 

Yes ! We were all happy for a while, and in the midst of 
such pure, reviving influences, I became blooming and elastic as 
a mountain maid. Dr. Harlowe was the same kind, genial, 
warm-hearted friend. Mr. Regulus, the same — no, he was 
changed, — improved, softened still more than when he surprised 
me by his graces, in my metropolitan home. He looked several 
years younger, and a great deal handsomer. 

Had I^Iargaret wrought this improvement ? Had she indeed 
supplanted me in my tutor's guileless heart ? I inquired of 
Edith after the wild creature, whom I suspected some secret 
influence was beginning to tame. 

" Oh ! you have no idea how Madge is improved, since her 
visit to you," she answered. ^ She sometimes talks sensibly for 
five minutes at a time, and I have actually caught her singing 
and playing a sentimental air. Mamma says if she were in 
love with a man of sense and worth, he might make of her a 
most invaluable character." 

^ 3Ir. Kcgulus, for instance I " said I. 

Edith laughed most musically. 

** Mr. Regulus in love ! that would be a farce." 

" I have seen that farce performed," said Dr. Harlowe, who 
happened to come in at that moment, and caught her last words. 
*^ I have seen Mr. Regulus as much in love as — let me seei** 
£^cing at me, ^ as Richard Clyde." 

Much as I liked Dr. Harlowe I felt angry with him for an 

28 



o 



26 ERNEST LINWOOD, 



allusion, which always called the cloud to Ernest's brow, and 
the blush to my cheek. 

" Do tell me the object of his romautic passion ? " cried EJiih. 
who seemed excessively amused at the idea. 

** Am I telling tales out of school ? " asked the doctor, loddi^ 
merrily at me. " Do you not know the young enchantress, who 
has turned all the heads in our town, not excepting the shoe- 
maker's api>reiitice and the tailor's journeyman ? Poor 3t. 
Rugulus could not escape the fascination. The old story of 
3>eauty and the Beast, — only Beauty was inexorable iLii 
time." 

" Gabriella ! " exclaimed Edith, with unutterable astoni«^a- 
mont ; " he always callo<l her his child. Who would have be- 
lieved it? Why, Gabrielkv, how many victims have your 
chariot wheels of conquest rolled over ? " 

'* I am afraid if / had not been a married man, she would 
have added me to the number," said tlie doctor, with much gravity. 
" I am not certain that jSL's. Harlowc is not jealous, in secret, o*' 
my public devotion." 

Wlio would believe that light words like these, carele>?ly 
uttered, and forgotten with the breath that formed them, should 
rankle like arrows in a breast where reason was cnthruueJ: 
But it wiis even so. The allusion to Richard Clyde, the revelation 
of Mr. Regulus' rumantic attachment, even the playful remarL* 
of Dr. Ilarlowe relative to his wife's jealousy, were gall and 
wormwood, embittering the feelings of Ernest. He frowiu'd, 
bit his lip, rose, and walked into the piazza. His mother's eyes 
followt'd him with that look which I had so oAen seen before 
our marriage, and whieh 1 now understood too welL I made an 
involuntary movement to follow him, but her glance commanded 
me to remain. The doctor, who was in a merry mood, continued 
liis sportive remarks, without appearing to notice the darkened 
countenance and absence of Ernest. I talked and smiled too 
at his good-humored sallies, that he might not perceive my anx- 
iou.^, wounded feelinirs. 

A little while after 31r. Rogulus called, and Emest accom- 




SBNBST LINWOOD. S27 

panied him to the parlor door with an air of such freezing 
ec^dness, I wonder it did not congeal his warm and misospeet- 
iiig heart. And there Ernest stood with folded arms, leaning 
iMidL against the wall just within the door, stem and silenty 
casting a dark shadow on my souL Poor Mr. B^nlus, — now 
lie knew he had been my lover, he would scaredj permit him 
to be my friend. 

'^ Oh ! " thought I9 blushing to think how moody and strange 
lie must seem to others,— *^ surely my happiness is based on 
■and, since the transient breath of others can shake it from its 
foundation. If it depended on myself, I would guard every 
look, word, and action, with never sleeping vigilance ; — but how 
can I be secured against the casual sayings of others, words 
mimeaning as a child's, and as devoid of harm ? I might as 
well make cables of water and walls of foam, as build up a 
fabric of domestic felicity without confidence as the foundation 
stone." 

As these thoughts arose in my mind, my heart grew hard 
and rebellious. The golden chain of love clanked and chafed 
against the bosom it attempted to imprison. 

^ I will not," I repeated to myself, ^ alienate from me, by 
coolness and gloom, the friends who have loved me from my 
orphan childhood. Let him be morose and dark, if he will ; I 
will not follow his example. I will not be the slave of his mad 
caprices." 

^ No," whispered the angel over my right ehovlderj ^ but you 
will be the forbearing, gentle wife, who promised to endure atiy 
knowing his infirmity, before you breathed your wedded vows. 
You are loved beyond the sober reality of common life. Tour 
prayer is granted. You dare not murmur. You have held out 
your cup for the red wine. There is fire in its glow. You can- 
not turn it into water now. There is no divine wanderer on 
earth to reverse the miracle of Caaa. < Peace' is womaift 
watchword, and heaven's holiest, latest legacy." 

As I listened to the angel's whisper, the voices of those 
around me entered not my ear. I was as far away from them 
as if pillowed on the clouds, whose niver edges crinUad loond 
the moon. 



328 K U N i: 3 T 1, I N W O O D . 

As soon as our guests had departed, Ernest went up to Edith, 
and putting his arm round her, drew her to the barp. 

*• Sing ibr mo, Edith, for my gpirit is dark and troubled. 
You alone have power to soothe it. You are the David of the 
haunted Saul/* 

She looked up in his face suddenly, and leaned her head on 
his shouldor. Perhaps at that moment she felt the joy of bein* 
to him all that she had been, before ho had known and loved 
me. lie had appealed to her, in the hour of darkness. He had 
passed mo by, as though I were not there. He sat down 
eloso to her as she played, so close that her fair ringlets swept 
a^iain.-t his cheek ; and as she sang, she turned towards him 
with such a loving smile, — such a sweet, happy expression. — 
just as she used to wear! I always loved to hear Edith sing; 
but now my si)irit did not hannonize with the strains. Again a 
^tingin;; sense of injustice quickened the pulsations of my ht*art 
Au;ain 1 asked myself, " AVhat had I done, that he should look 
coldly on me, pass me with averted eye, and seek consuUitiou 
1 rom another ? " 

I could not sit still and listen, for I was lefk alone. I n>t^ 
and stole from the room, — stole out into the dewy night, undiT 
the heavy, drooping shade-boughs, and sat down wearily, lean- 
ing my head against the hard, rough bark. Never Lad I seen 
a more enchanting night. A thin mist rose from the bosom of 
the valley an<l hovered like a veil of silvery gauze over its rich 
depth of verdure. It floated round the edge of the horizon, 
subduing its outline of dazzling blue, and rolled off among the 
hills in ."-ol't, yet darkening convolutions. And high above mc, 
serene anrl holy, the moon leaned over a ledge of slate-colorcil 
clouds, whoso margin was plated with her beams, and looked 
pensively and solemnly on the pale and sad young face up!ilU-d 
to lier own. The stilly dews slept at my feet. They huug 
tremulously on the branches over my head, and sparkled on the 
spring blossoms that gave forth their inmost perfume to the 
atmo-;j)here of night. Every thing was so calm, so peaceful, so 
intensely lovely, — and yet there was something deadly and 
chilling mingled with the cehstial beauty of the scene. The Lice 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 829 

dang in dump folds to my bosom. The hair fell heavy with 
moi.<:ture against my temples. 

I heard a step softly crushing the grass near me. I did not 
look up, for I thought it was the step of Ernest ; but my poise 
throbbed with a quickened motion. 

^Gabriella, my child, you must not sit here in this chill, 
damp evening air.** 

It was Mrs. Linwood, who took me by the hand and drew 
me from the seat It was not Ernest. He had not missed me. 
lie hod not feared for me the chill dews of night. 

^ I do not feel cold," I answered, with a slight shudder. 

** Come in," she repeated, leading me to the house with gentle 
force. 

^ Not there," I said, shrinking from the open door of the 
parlor, through which I could see Ernest, with his head leaning 
on both hands, while his elbows rested on the back of Edith's 
cliair. She was still singing, and the notes of her voice, sweet 
as they were, like the odor of the night-flowers, had something 
laiipruishing and oppressive. I hurried by, and ascended the 
stairs. Mrs. Linwood followed me to the door of my apartment, 
then taking me by both hands, she looked me full in the face, 
with a mildly reproachful glance. 

^ O, Gabriella ! if your spirit sink thus early, if yoa can- 
not bear tlie burden you liave assumed, in the bright morning 
hour of love, how will you be able to support it in the sultry 
noon of life, or in the weariness of its declining day ? Tou are 
very young, — you have a long pilgrimage before you. If you 
droop flow, where will be the strength to sustain in a later, 
darker hour ? " 

^ I shall not meet it," I answered, trying in vain to repress 
the ri^iing sob. ^ 1 do not wish a long life, unless it be happier 
than it now prrjmises to be." 

^ Wluit ! so young, and so hopeless ! Where is the strength 
and vit:ility of your love ? The fervor and steadfastness of 
your faith ? My child, you have borne nothing yet, and you 
promised to hope all and endure alL Be strong, be patient, bo 
hopeful, and you shall yet reap your reward." 

28 • 



;J30 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" Alas ! my mother, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is 

weak." 

" There is no task appointed to man or woman," she answered 
*' which may not be performed, through the power of God and 
the influences of the Holy Spirit, Remember this, my beloved 
daughter ; and remember, too, that the heart which btnds will 
not break. Good-night ! We had better not renew this theme, 
'Patient continuance in well-doing;' let tliis be yonr mot:a 
and if happiness in this world be not your reward, immortalitj 
and glory in the next will be yours." 

1 looked after her as she gently retreated, and as the hghi 
glanced on the folds of her silver gray dress, she seemed to 
me as one of the shuiing ones revealed in the pilgrim's vision. 
At that moment her esteem and approbation seemed as precious 
to me as Ernest's love. I entered my chamber, and sitting 
down quietly in my beloved recess, repeated over and over 
again the Christian motto, which the lips of Mrs. Lin wood ui- 
tered in parting, — " Patient continuance in well-doing." 

I condemned myself for the feelings I had been indulging. 
I had felt bitter towards Edith for smiling so sweetly in her 
brotlier's face, when it had turned so coldly from me. I was 
envious of her power to soothe the restless spirit I had so un- 
consciously troubled. As 1 thus communed with my own heart, 
I unbound my hair, that the air might exhale the mist which 
had gathered in its folds. I brushed out the damp tresses, till 
sclf-niesmerized, a soft haziness stole over my senses, and 
though I did not sleep, I was on the borders of the land of 
dreams. # 




CHAPTER XLIII. 

I SUPPOSE I must have slept, though I was not conscious of 
it, for I did not hear Ernest enter the room, and jet when I 
looked again, he was sitting in the opposite window, still as a 
statue, looking out into the depths of night. I started as if 
I had seen a spirit, for I believed mjself alone, and I did not 
feel less lonely now. There was something dejected in his atti- 
tude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned his fore- 
head against the window sash. 

I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his 
shoulder. 

" Are you angry with me, Ernest ? " I asked. 

He did not answer, or turn towards me ; but I felt a tremu- 
lous motion of his shoulder, and knew that he heard me. 

*' What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest ? " again I 
asked. ^ Will you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what 
I have offended ? " 

** I am not offended," he answered, without looking up ; " I 
am not angry, but grieved, wounded, and unhappy." 

" And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not 
sympathy in sorrow the wife's holiest privilege ? " 

^* Gabriella, you mock me ! " he exclaimed, suddenly rising 
and speaking in a low, stem voice. ^ You know that you are 
yourself the cause of my grief, and your words are as hollow as 
your actions are vain. Did you not promise, solemnly proihise 
never to deceive me again, afler having caused me such agony 
by the deception I yet freely forgave ? " 

" Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived ? K I know my- 

(381) 



332 EUNKST LIN WOOD. 

seir, every word and action Las been as clear and open as hood- 
duy." 

"Did you ever tell me your teacher was your lover, — he 
witli whom you were so intimately associated when I first knew 
you ? You sutrercd me to believe that he was to you in the 
relation almost of a father. I received him as such in my own 
home. I lavished upon him every hoapitable attention, as tbe 
friend and guide of your youth, and now you sufter me to L«ir 
from others that his romantic love was the theme of villa-'^ 

c 

gossip, that your names are still associated by idle tongues." 

" I always believed before that unrequited love was not a 
theme fur vain boasting, that it was a secret too snored to be 
divulged even to the dearest and the nearest." 

** But every one who has been so unfortunate as to be asso- 
ciated with you, seems to have been the victims of unrequited 
love. The name of Kichard Clyde is familiar to all as the 
model of despairing lovers, and even Dr. Ilarlowe addresses 
you in a strain of unpardonable levity." 

" O Ernest, cannot you spare even liimf " 

** You asked me the c^iuse of my displeasure, and I have 
tuld you the source of my grief, otherwise I bad been silent. 
There must ];e something wrong, Gabriclla, or you would not 
Ijc the subject of such remarks. Edith, all lovely as she is 
passes on without exciting them. The most distant allusion lo 
a lover should be considered an insult by a wedded woman, 
and most especially in her husband's presence." 

" I have n(?ver sought admiration or love," said I, every feci- 
inij; of dcheacy and pride rising to repel an insinuation so 
in ij list. *' AVhen they have been mine, they were spontxmcous 
•.^it'ts, olVered nobly, and if not accepted, at least declined with 
gratitude and sensibility. If I have been 60 unfortunate as to 
win what your lovely sister might more justly claim, it has 
bt'cn bv the exercise of no base allurement or meritricious 
attractions. 1 ai>j)eal to your own experience, and if it does 
not ae<piit me, 1 am for ever silent." 

Coldly and proudly my eye met his, as we stood face to face 
in the light of the midnight moon. I, who had looked up to 




* BBNE8T LINWOOD. 883 

him with the reverence due to a superior being, felt that I was 
above him now. He was the slave of an ui^ust passion, the 
dupe of a distempered fancy, and as such unworthy of my 
respect and love. As I admitted this truth, I shuddered with 
that vague horror we feel in dreams, when we recoil from the 
brink of something, we know not what I trembled when his 
lips opened, fearful he would say something more irrational and 
unmanly still. 

*^0 Ernest!" I cried, all at once yielding to the emodims 
that were bearing me down with such irresistible power, ''you 
frighten me, you fill me with unspeakable dread. There seems 
a deep abyss yawning between us, and I stand upon one icy 
brink and you on the other, and the chasm widens, and I stretch 
out my arms in vain to reach you, and I call, and nothing but 
a dreary echo answers, and I look into my heart and do not 
find jou there. Save me, Ernest, save me, — my husband, 
save yourself from a doom so dreadful ! ** 

Excited by the awful picture of desolation I had drawn, I 
iilid down upon my knees and raised my clasped hands, as if 
pleading for life beneath the axe of the executioner. I must 
liavc been the very personification of despair, with my hair 
wiMly sweeping round mc, and hands locked in agony. 

^ To live on, live on together, year afler year, cold and es- 
tranged, without love, without hope," — I continued, unable to 
check the words that came now as in a rushing tide, — ^ Oh I is it 
not dreadful, Ernest, even to think of? There is no evil I 
could not bear while we loved one another. If poverty came, 

— welcome, welcome. I could toil and smile, if I only toiled 
for you, if I were only trusted^ only believed. There is no sac- 
rifice I would not make to prove my faith. Do you demand 
my right hand? — cut it off; my right eye? — pluck it out; 

— I withhold nothing. I would even lay my heart bleeding at 
your feet in attestation of my truth. But what can I do, when 
the idle breath of others, over which I have no power, shakes 
the tottering fabric of your confidence, and I am buried beneath 
the ruins ? " 

"^ You have never loved like me, Gabriella, or yoa would 



834 K K N E 3 T L I K W O O D . 

never dream of the possibility of its being extingui^licd.'^ saiJ 
he, in a tone of indescribable wretehedness. *• I miiv alionate 
you from me, by llic indulgence of insane pas.sion.s, by aaMiSs- 
tions repented as i^oon as uttered, — I may revile and jwrsecaie. 
— but 1 can never cease to love you." 

** O Ernest ! " It was all gone, — pride, anger, dwpdr, 
were gone. The lirst glance of returning love, — ilie first ac- 
knowledgment of uttered wrong, were enough for me. I was in 
his arms, next to his heartland the last hourd seemed a Jrcic 
of darkness. I was haj>py again ; but I trembled even ia tlw 
juy of reconciliation. I realized on what a slender thread niV 
wedded liappiness was hanging, and knew that it must ono daj 
break. JNIoments like these were like those CTeen and clowinc 
spots found on the volcano's burning edge. The lava of pa.v»ioj 
might sweep over them quick as the lightning's Hash, and bi-aury 
and bloom b«,' covered with ashes and desolation. 

And so the cloud passed by, — and Ernest was, if iK)?«fl?K 
more tender and devoted, and I tried to cast olF the proplicii- 
sadness that would at times steal over the brightness of the tu- 
(ure. 1 was literally giving up all for him. I no longer do- 
rived pleasure from the society of 3Ir. Kogulus. 1 drondHl 
the sjxirtivc sjdlies of Dr. Ilarlowe. 1 looked forward wi:!i 
t'lior to tlie return of Richard Clyde. I grew nervous mv\ 
restless. The color would come and go in my face, like the 
Ihi^lns of the auroia borealis, and my heart would palpitate su'l- 
denly and painfully, as if some unknown evil wei'e impentlinj. 
Did I now say, as 1 did a few months after my marrinirc, 
tliat 1 pieferred the stormy elements in which I moved, to 
t lie usual calm of domestic lif<.* ? Did I exult, as the billows 
• welled b<'nealh me and bore me up on their foaming cre?l.N 
in tin' j)ower oi" raiding tlie whirlwind and the tempest ? No: I 
>i::lied for rest, — for still waters and tranquil skies. 

It i< strange, that a subject which has entirely escaped the 
mind, wlien ass(K'iatir»ns naturally recall it, will sometimes re- 
turn and liaunt it, when nothing seems favorable for its recep- 
tion. 

During my agitated interview with my unliappy fatlicr, 




EBNEST LINWOOD. 3B5 

I had forgotten Theresa La Fontaine, and the boy whose 
liirthright I had unconsciously usurped. Mr. Brahan, in speak- 
ing of Su James and his two wives, said they had both disap- 
peared in a mysterious manner. That boy, if living, was my 
brother, my hxdf-brothcr, the legitimate inheritor of my name, — 
a name, alas ! he might well blush to bear. If living, where 
was he, and who was he ? Was he the heir of his father's 
Tioes, and was he conscious of his ignominious career ? These 
questions constantly recurred, now there was no oracle near 
to answer. Once, and only once, I mentioned them to Mrs. 
Linwood. 

" You had better not attempt to lifl the veil which covers the 
past," she answered, in her most decided manner. ^ Think of 
the suffering, not to say disgrace, attached to the discovery of 
your father, — and let this brother be to you as though he had 
never been. Tempt not Providence, by indulging one wish on 
the >ul)ject, which might lead to shame and sorrow. Ernest 
has acteil magnanimously with regard to the circumstxmces, 
which mu^t have been galling beyond expression to one of his 
proud and sensitive nature. And I, Gabriella, — though out of 
delicacy to you, — I have forborne any allusion to the events of 
the last winter, have sufiered most deeply and acutely on their 
account. I liave suffered for myself, as well as my son. If 
there is any tiling in this world to be prized next to a blame- 
less conscience, it is an unspotted name. Well is it for you, 
that your own is covered with one, wliich from generation to 
generation has been pure and honorable. Well is it for you, 
that your husband*s love is stronger than his pride, or he might 
reproach you for a father's ignominy. Remember this, when 
you feel that you have wrongs to forgive. And as you value 
your own happiness and ours, never, my child, seek to discover 
a brother, whom you would probably blush to acknowledge, 
and my son be compelled to disown." 

She sjK)ke with dignity and emphasis, while the pride of a 
virtuous and honored ancestry, though subdued by Christian 
grace, darkened her eyes and glowed on her usually colorless 
cheek. I realized then all her forbearance and delicacy* I 



330 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

iindorstood what a deep wound her family pride muM liave re- 
ceived, and how bitterly she must have regrt-tted a un:^a 
which exposed her son to contact with dogradatiou and crime. 

*• I would not have si>oken aa I have, my daughter," ^he 
added, in a softened tone, " but with your limited knowknige 'jf 
the world, you cannot understand the importance attached to 
unblcmislied associations. And never mention the subject to 
Ernest, if you would not revive memories that had better sluai- 
ber for ever." 

She immediately resumed her kind and gracious manner, hut 
1 never forgot the lesson she had given. My proud *pLn: 
needed no second warning. Never had I felt so crushed, so 
liuiniliated by the remembrance of my father's crimes. Tha: 
he wfts my father I had never dared lo doubt. Even Emr ?t 
relinfiuished the hope he had cherished, as time parsed on, and 
no l<tter from Mr. Brahan threw any new liglit on the dork 
reliitionsliip; though removed from the vicinity of the dismal 
Tombs, the dark, gigantic walls cast their lengthening shadow 
over the fresli green fields and blossoming meadows, and Jim- 
me<l the glory of the landscape. 

The shadow of the Tombs met the shadow in my heart, and 
top:eth«'r tliey produced a chill atmosphere. I sighed for tliai 
pirfeei love which casteth out fear; that free, joyous inter- 
course of thought and feeling, born of undoubting conOdeuce. 

CV)uld I live over again the first year of my wedded life,widi 
tlie experience that now enlightens me, I would pursue a very 
diilerent course of action. A passion so wild and strong a? 
tli:it wliieli darkened my domestic happiness, should be resisted 
with the energy of reason, instead of being indulged with the 
\v< akness of fear. Evctry sacrifice made to appease its violence 
only paved the way for a greater. Every act of my life had 
relereiiee to this one ma-^ter-passion. I scarcely ever spoke 
without watching the countenance of Ernest to see the effect 
of my words. If it was overcast or saddened, I feared I had 
given utterance to an imi)roper sentiment, and then I blushed 
in silence. Very unfortunate was it for him, that I thus fed 
and strengthened the serpent that should have been strangled 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 337 

fn the cradle of our love ; and his mother unconscionsl j did the 
same. She believed him afflicted by a hereditary malady 
which should inspire pity, and be treated with gentleness rather 
tban resistance. Edith, too, — if a cloud passed over his brow, 
she exerted every winning and endearing sisterly art to chase 
the gloom. 

The history of man for six thousand years shows, that in the 
exercise of unlimited power he becomes a despot. Kingly 
annals confirm the truth of this, and domestic records proclaim 
U with a thundering tongue. There must be a restraining in- 
fluence on human passion, or its turbulent waves swell higher 
and higher, till they sweep over the landmarks of reason, honor, 
and love. The mighty hand of God is alone powerful enough 
to curb the raging billows. lie alone can say, '^ peace, be stilL" 
But he has ministers on eartli appointed to do his pleasure, and 
if they fulfil their task lie may not be compelled to reveal him- 
self in naming tire as the God of retributive justice. 

I know tliat Ernest loved me, with all his heart, soul, and 
strenirth ; but mingled with this deep, strong love, there was 
the alloy of selfishness, — the iron of a despotic will. There 
was the jealousy of power, as well as the jealousy of love, un- 
consciously exercised and acquiring by indulgence a growing 
strength. 

3Iy happiness was the first desire of his heart, the first aim 
of his life ; but I must be made happy in his way, and by his 
means. His hand, fair, soft, and delicate as a woman's, — that 
hand, with its ;rentle, warm, heart-thrilling pressure, was never- 
theless the hand of Procrustes ; and though he covered the iron 
bcMl with tht; flowers of love, the spirit sometimes writhed under 
thr coercion it endured. 

•* You are not well/' said Dr. Ilarlowe, as we met him during 
an evenin;; walk. "^ I do not like that fluctuating color, or that 
qui<*k, irregular breathing.*' 

Ernest started a-* if he had heard my death-warrant ; and, 
taking my hand, he began to count my quickly throbbing pulse. 

" That will never do," said the doctor, smiling. " Ilcr pulse 
will beat three times as fast under your fingers as mine, if you 

21) 



838 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

have been married nearly a year. It is not a good pulse. You 
had belter take care of her." 

'• lie takes a great deal too much care of me, doctor," I cried. 
^' Do not make him think I aiu an invalid, or Le will make a 
complete hothouse plant of me." 

*' Who ever saw an invalid with such a color as that ? " asked 
Knu'st. 

*"Too brI|Tht — too mutable," answered the doctor, shaking 
his liea«l. " Slie is right. You keep her too close. Let her 
run wild, like any other country girl. Let her rise early and 
go out into the barnyard, see the cows milked, inhale thrir 
odorous breathings, wander in the iields among the new-mown 
hav, li't her rake it into mounds and throw herself on the fra- 
grant heaps, as I have seen her do when a little school-girL 
T^et her do just as she pleases, go where she pleases, stay a? 
long as she pleases, in the open air and free sunshine ; and 
mark my words, she will wear on her cheeks the steady bloom 
of the milkmaid, instead of the flitting rosiness of the sunset 
cloud." 

** 1 am not conscious of imposing so much restraint on her 
actions as your words imply," said Ernest, a flush of displeasure 
pa>sing over his pale and anxious countenance. 

'* Make her take a ride on horseback every morning and 
evening," continued Dr. Ilarlowe, with perfect coolness, without 
taking any notice of the interruption. " Best exercise in the 
world. Fine rides for equestrians through the green woods 
around lu.re. If that does not set her right, carry her to the 
jo.uing Falls of Niagara, or the snowy hills of New Hamp- 
shire, or the Catskill Mountains, or the Blue Bidge. I cannot 
let I Ik? flower of the village droop and fade." 

As he linished the sentence, the merry tones of his voice be- 
came grave and subdued. He spoke Jis one having the author- 
ity of seii nee and experience, as w^ell as the privilege of affec- 
tion. I looked down to hide the moisture tliat glistened in my 
eyes. 

** How would you like to travel as the doctor has suggested, 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 839 

Crabriella?'' asked Ernest, who seemed much mored by the 
doctor's remarks. " You know I would go to " — 

** Nova Zembla, if she wished it," interrupted the doctor, ^ but 
that is too far and too cold. Begin with a shorter joumej. I 
wish I could accompany you, but I cannot plead as an excuse 
my wife's delicacy of constitution. Her health is as uniform 
as her temper ; and even if life and death were at stake, she 
would not leave her housekeeping in other hands. Neither 
would she dose her doors and turn her locks, lest moth and rust 
should corrupt, and thieves break in and steaL But pardon me, 
I have given you no opportunity to answer your husband's ques- 
tion." 

'^ I shall only feel too happy to avail myself of his unneces- 
sary fears with regard to my health," I answered. ^ It will be 
a charming way of passing the summer, if Mrs. Linwood and 
Edith will consent" 

Dr. Harlowe accompanied us home, and nothing was talked 
of but the intended journey. The solicitude of Ernest was 
painfully roused, and he seemed ready to move heaven and 
earth to facilitate our departure. 

^ I £un sorry to close Grandison Place in the summer season," 
said ^Irs. Linwood ; ^ it looks so inhospitable. Besides, I have 
many friends who anticipate passing the sultry season here." 

" Let them travel with you, if they wish," said the doctor 
bluntly. ^ That is no reason why you should stay at home." 

"Poor ^Lwlge!" cried Edith, who was delighted with the 
arrangement the docter had suggested. ^ She will be so disap- 
pointed." 

" Lot her come," said Dr. Harlowe. " I will take charge of 
the wild-cat, and if I find her too mighty for me, I will get Mr. 
Regulus to assist me in keeping her in order. Let her come, 
by all moans." 

^ Supposing we write and ask her to accompany us," said 
Mrs. Linwood. ^ Her exuberant spirits will be subdued by the 
exercise of travelling, and she may prove a most exhihirating 
companion." 

^Whaty four ladies to mie gentkmanl'* exclaimed Edith* 



810 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

^' Poor Ernest! when be will have tliouglits and eyes bat for 
one ! " 

'• I would sooner travel with the Falls of Niagara, or the 
boiling springs of Geyser," cried Ernest, with an instincdTe 
shudder. '' We should have to take a carpenter, a glazier, n 
uj)holsterer« and a seamstress, to repair the ruins she would 
strew in our path." 

*" If llichard Clyde were about to return a little earlier in tbe 
se:Lson," said the doctor, looking at Editli, ^ he would be a de- 
lightful aeciuisition to your party. He would divide widi joor 
brother the heavy res|x>nsibility of being the guardian of so 
many household treasures." 

" Let us start as early as possible," exclaimed Ernest. The 
name of Kichard Clyde was to his impatient, jealous spirit, as ii 
the rowel to the fiery steed. 

** And what will become of all our beautiful flowers, and our 
rich, ripening fruit ?" I asked. " Must they waste their sweet- 
ness and value on the unappreciating air ? " 

** 1 think we must make Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Reinilus the 
guardians and participator of both," said Mrs. Lin wood. 

" Gi\c him the flowers, and leave the fruit to me," cried Dr. 
ILirlowe, emphatically. 

*' That the sick, the poor, and the afilicted maj be benefited 
by the act," replied Mrs. Linwood. "Let it be so. Doctor,— 
anrl may many a blessmg which lias once been mine, rewari 
your just and generous distribution of the abounding riches 
of Grandison Place." 

I lel't one sacred charge with the preceptor of my child* 
hood. 

" Let not the flowers and shrubbery around my mothers 
grave, and the grave of Vcg^y, wilt and die for want of care." 

" They shall not. They shall be tenderly and carefully 
nurtured." 

*' And if INIargaret comes during our absence, be kiqd and 
attentive to her, ior my sake, Mr. Kegulus." 

** I will ! I will ! and for her own too. The wild girl has a 
heart, I believe she lias ; a good and honest heart." 



^ EBNXST LINWOOD. 841 

ii ^You discovered it daring your homeward journey from 
New York. I thought you would/' said I, pleased to see a 
ik floih light up the student's olive cheek. I thought of the sen- 
it tible Benedict and the wild Beatrice, and the drama of other 
■t lives passed before the eye of imagination. 
■i Gloomy must the walls of Grandison Place appear during the 
absence of its inmates, — that city set upon a hill that could 
I not be hid, whose illuminated windows glittered on the vale be- 
low with beacon splendor, and discoursed of genial hospitality 
and kindly charity to the surrounding shadows. Sadly must 
the evening gale sigh through the noble oaks, whose branches 
met over the winding avenue, and lonely the elm-tree wave its 
hundred arms above the unoccupied seat, — that seat, beneath 
whose breezy shade I had first beheld the pale, impassioned, and 
haunting &ce of Ernest Linwood. 

29* 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

It is not my intention to describe our journey ; and I fear it ^ 
indeed be an act of supererogation to attempt to give an idea of 
those majestic Falls, whose grandeur and whose glory have so 
long been the theme of the painter's pencil and the poet's lyre. 
Never shall I forget the moment when my spirit plunged into 
the roar and the foamy the thunders and the rainbows of Ni- 
agara. I paused involuntarily a hundred paces from the brink 
of the cataract. I was about to realize one of the magnifi- 
cent dreams of my youthful imagination. I hesitated and 
trembled. I felt something of the trepidation, the blissful trt- 
mor that agitated my whole being when Ernest asked me into 
the moonlight garden at Cambridge, and I thought he was going 
to tell me that he loved me. The emotions I was about to ex- 
perience would never come again, and I knew when once ptsi 
could never be anticipated as now, with indescribable awe. I 
felt something as Moses did when he stood in the hollow of 
the rock, as the glory of the Lord was about to pass by. And 
Finely no grander exhibition of God's glory ever burst on mor- 
tal eye, than this mighty volume of water, rushing, roaring, 
])liinging, boiling, foaming, tossing its foam like snow into the 
face of heaven, throwing up rainbow afler rainbow from un- 
ihthomable abysses, then sinking gradually into a sluggbh calm, 
as if exhausted by the stupendous efforts it had made. 

Clinging to the arm of Ernest, I drew nearer and nearer, till 
all j)ersonal fear was absorbed in a sense of overpowering mag- 
nificence. I was a j)art of that glorious cataract; I partici- 
pated in the mighty struggle ; I panted with the throes of the 
pure, dark, tremendous element, vassal at once and cooqiieror 

(342) 




KHlifiST LIHWOOD. 348 

of man ; triamphcd in the gorgeous (trep-en del that rested 
like angels of the Lord above the mist and the foam and the 
thunders of watery strife, and reposed languidly with the sub- 
siding waves that slept like weary warriors ailer the din and 
•trife of battle, the frown of contention lingering on their brow% 
and the smile of disdxun still curling their lips. 

Oh, how poor, how weak seemed the conflict of human pas- 
sion in the presence of this sublime, this wondrous spectacle 1 I 
eould not speak, — I could scarcely breathe, — I was hone 
down, overpowered, almost annihilated. My knees bent, my 
hands involuntarily clasped themselves over the arm of Ernest, 
and in this attitude of intense adoration I looked up and whis- 
pered, ** God, — eternity." 

^ Enthusiast ! " exclaimed he ; but his countenance was 
luminous with the light that glowed on mine. He put his arm 
around me, but did not attempt to raise me. Edith and her 
mother were near, in company with a friend who had been our 
fellow-traveller from New England, and who had extended 
his journey beyond its prescribed limits for the sake of being 
our companion. I looked towards Edith with tremulous in- 
terest. As she stood leaning on her crutches, her garments 
fluttering in the breeze, I almost expected to see her borne from 
us like down upon the wind, and floating on the bosom of that 
mighty current. 

I said I did not mean to attempt a description of scenes 
which have baffled tlie genius and eloquence of man. 

'* Now I am content to die I " said an ancient traveller, when 
tlic colossal shadow of the Egyptian pyramids first fell on his 
Wi'ory frame. But what are those huge, unmoving monuments 
of man*s ambition, compared to this grandest of creation's mys- 
teries, whose deep and thundering voice is repeating, day after 
day and night aAer night, — ^ forever and ever,** and whose 
majestic motion, rushing onward, plunging dow n w ar d, never 
pausing, never resting, is emblematic of the sublime march of 
Deity, from everlasting to everlasting, — from etarahj to eter- 
nity? 

ShaU I ever forget the numient when I stood en TWminatlon 



344 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Rock, beyond which no mortal foot has ever penetrated ? I stood 
in a shroud of gray mist, wrapping me on every side, — above, 
below, around. I shuddered, as if the hollow, reyerbenUDg 
murmurs that filled my ears were the knell of the departed sun. 
That cold, gray mist ; it penetrated the depths of my spirit ; it 
drenched, drowned it, filled it with vague, ghost-like imagei of 
dread and horror. I cast one glance behind, and saw a gleam 
of heaven's sunny blue, one bright dazzling gleam flashing be- 
tween the rugged rock and the rushing waters. It was as if 
the veil of the temple of nature were rent, and the gloiy of 
God shone through the fissure. 

" Let us return," said I to Ernest " I feel as if I had passed 
through the valley of the shadow of death. Is it not sacrilegioos 
to penetrate so deeply into the mysteries of nature ? " 

" O Gabriclla ! " he exclaimed, his eyes flashing throagh the 
shrouding mist like burning stars, " how I wish joa felt widi 
me ! Were it possible to build a home on this shelving rock, I 
would willingly dwell here forever, surrounded by this veiling 
mist. With you thus clasped in my arms, I could be happy, in 
darkness and clouds, in solitude and dreariness, anywhere, ereij- 
wliere, — with the conviction that you loved me, and that yoa 
looked for happiness alone to me." 

" At this moment," I answered, drawing more closely to him, 
** I feci as if I would rather stay here and die, than return to the 
world and mingle in its jarring elements. I would far rather, 
Ernest, make my winding-sheet of those cold, unfathomable 
waters, than live to feel again the anguish of being doubted by 
you." 

** That is all past, my Gabriella, — all past. My nature is re- 
newed and j)urified. I feel within me new-bom strength and 
j)owcr of resistancow By the God of yon roaring cataract — " 

'* No, — no, Ernest, do not promise, — I dare not hear yoa : 
we are so weak, and temptations are so strong." 

** Do you distrust yourself, or me ? " 

" Both, Ernest. I never, never felt how poor and vain aod 
frail we are, till I stood, as now, in the presence of the power 
of the Ahnighty." 




EBNS8T LINWOOD. 845 

His coaDteiumce changed instantaneouslj. ^ To what temp- 
tslknis do you allude ? ** he asked. ^ I can imagine none that 
ecmld shake my fidelity to you. My constancy is as firm as this 
rock. Those rushing waves could not move it Why do you 
clieck a vow which I dare to make in the veiy &oe of Omnipo- 
tence?" 

*^ I doubt not your faith or constancy^ most beloved Ernest ; 
I doubt not my own. You know what I do fear, — misconstruo- 
tioD and suspicion. But let us not speak, let us not think of 
the past. Let us look forward to the future, with true and 
earnest spirits, praying Grod to help us in weakness and error. 
Only think, Ernest, we have that within us more mighty than 
that descending flood. These souls of ours will still live in im- 
mortal youth, when that whelming Ude ceases to roll, when the 
firmament shrivels like a burning scroll. I never realized it so 
fully, so grandly, as now. I shall carry from this rock something 
I did not bring. I liave received a baptism standing here, purer 
than fire, gentle as dew, yet deep and pervading as ocean. I 
cannot describe what I mean, but I feel it Before I came, it 
seemed as if a great wall of adamant rose between me and 
heaven ; now there is nothing but this veil of mist." 

As we turned to leave this region of blinding spray and mys- 
terious shadows, Ernest repeated, in his most melodious accents, 
a imssage from Schiller's magnificent poem of the diver. 

^ " And it bal>l>lc8 and seethes, and it hisses and roan. 

As when fire is with water commixed and contondiog ; 
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin npsoars. 
And flood npon flood harries on, nerer ending. 
And it never will rest, nor from trarail bo free. 
Like a sea, that is laboring tho birth of a 



Never did I experience a more exultant emotion than when 
we emergc<l into the clear air and glorious sunshine, — when I 
felt the soft, rich, green grass beneath, and the blue illimitable 
heavens smiling above. I had come out of darkness into mar- 
vellous light. I was drenched with light as I had previously 
been by the cold, gray mist I remembered another verse of 
the immortal poem I had learned from the lips of Eniest :— 



846 EBKEST LIKWOOD. 

" Happy they, whom the ro8e-haes of daylight rejoice, 
The air and the sky that to mortals are giTen ; 
May the horror below never more find a roice. 

Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of hcaren. 
Never more, never more may he lift from the sight 
The Tcil which is woven with terror and night." 




CHAPTER XLV. 

Amid the ndnbows of the cataract, Edith's heart caught the 
flrst glowing tinge of romance. 

We were wandering along the path that cones the beautiful 
lahuid, whose name, unpoetic as it is, recalls one of the brilliant 
constellations of the zodiac ; and £dith had seated herself on a 
rustic bench, under the massj dome of a spreading beech, and, 
taking oti* her bonnet, suffered her hair to float accordbg to its 
own wild will on the rising breeze. 

She did not observe a young man at a little distance, leaning 
back against an aged birch, on whose silverj bark the dark out- 
linen of his figure were finely daguerreotyped. He was the 
beau ideal of an artist, with his long brown hair carelessly 
pushed back from his white temples, his portfolio in his left 
hand, his pencil in his right, and his dark, restless eyes glancing 
round him with the ferror of enthusiasm, while they beamed 
with the inspiration of genius. He was evidently sketching the 
scene, wliich with bold, rapid lines he was transferring to the 
pa|>er. All at once his gaze was fixed on Edith, and he seemed 
spellbound. I did not wonder, — for a lovelier, more ethereal 
object never arrested the glance of admiration. Again his 
pencil moved, and I knew he was attempting to delineate her 
features. I was fearful lest she should move and dissolve the 
charm ; but she sat as still as the tree, whose gray trunk formed 
an artistic background to her slight figure. 

As soon as Ernest perceived the occupation of the yoimg 
artbt, he made a motion towards Edith, but I laid my baod co 
his arm. 

''Do not," I said; "^ she will make sndi ft beantifld pietat.* 

190) 



;)1S i:rni:st linwood. 

'• I do not like that a stranger should take so great a liberj,' 
he rt^plied, in an accent of displeasure. 

" Forgive the artist," I pleaded, " for the sake of the temir 

tat ion." 

Tht; young man, perceiving that he was observed. l'!i:«':irt 
^vith the most iii«r<.nuou3 modesty, took up his hat that washing 
on the grass, i)ut his paper and pencil in his portfolio, aad 
Aviilkod away into the wilderness oi' stately and majestic tivfe 
that ro>c dome within dome, jiillar witlihi pillar, like a ^ranJ 
eaihrdral. We followed slowly in the beaten path, through iLe 
dark green majjles, the bright-leaved luxuriant beech tree*. zsA 
the (quivering aspen?, whose trembling leaves seem instinct with 
human sensihility. And all the time we wandered tiiroujli the 
magniliceiit aisles cif the island, the deep roar of the catara.'!. 
like the symphony of a great organ, rtdled solemnly thivj^ii 
the leafy solitude, and mingled with the nisstling of llie I'uPi.-: 
Imlldis. 

In the evening the young artist sought an introduction to oar 
party. I lis name was Julian, and had the advantage of roman- 
tic a-soeiation. I was glad that Ernest g:ive him a conlial r«r 
e^pticMu for I was extremely preposse-;scd in his favor. Kvcn 
the wild idea that he might be my unknown brotlier, Jiad eniori^l 
my iiiin<l. I riinendjered Mrs. Linwood's advice too well to ex- 
pii ss it. I even tried to banish it, as absurd and imuiona!; 
l)u( it would el in «jr to me, — and gave an interest to the vuiin; 
St rani!, r whieh, Ihougli I dared not manifest, 1 could no: help 
fei.liii':. Fortunately his undiscniiscd admiration of Kdith wr»s 
a : :it"« .ruard to m**. He was too artless to conceal it. vot l-M 
niu<l»-l ti) expriss it. It was evinced by the mute elorjuenoe of 
vyrr. ihat gaz«Ml nj>on her, as on a celestial being; and tlie lis- 
t«nin;r ear, that seemed to drink in the lowest sound of her 
swf'ct, low voiee. He was asked to exhibit his sketches, wlJth 
wtre pidnounet-.l I Mild, .splendid, an<l masterly. 

Kdith wa-i leaning on her brother's shoulder, when she re- 
enirni/ed her own likeness, mo-t faithfully and gniocfully ei- 
eeuted. {She started, blushed, and looked towards young Julian, 
whose expressive eyes were riveted on her face, as if deprecat- 




ERNEST LIKWOOD. 849 

iog her displeasure. There were no traces of it on her lovely 
MNmteDance ; even a smile played on her lips, at the faint refleo- 
ion of her own loveliness. 

And thus commenced an acquaintance, or I might saj an 
■ttachment, as sudden and romantic as is ever described in the 
pages of the novelist. As soon as the diffidence that veiled 
hb first introduction wore away, he called forth his peculiar 
powers of pleasing, and Edith was not insensible to their fas- 
cination. Since her brother's marriage, she had felt a vacomn 
in her heart, which oAen involved her in a soft doad of pen- 
rfveness. She was unthroned, and like an uncrowned queen 
■lie sighed over the remembrance of her former royalty. It 
was not strange fliat the devotion of Julian, the enthusiasm of 
his character, the fervor of his language, the ardor, the grace 
of his manner, should have captivated her imagination and 
toachcd her heart. I never saw any one so changed in so 
short a time. The contrast was almost as great, to her former 
self, as between a placid silver lake, and the foam of the torrent 
sparkling and flashing with rainbows. Her countenance had 
lost its air of divine rei)ose, and varied with every emotion of 
her soul. She was a thousand times more beautiful, and I 
loved her far more than I had ever done before. There was 
something unnatural in her exclusive, jealous love of her 
brother, but now she acknowledged the supremacy of the great 
law of woman's destiny. Like a flower, suddenly shaken by a 
southern gale, and giving out the most delicious perfumes un- 
known iR'fore, her heart fluttered and expanded and yielded 
both its hidden sweetnesses. 

" Wi? must not encourage him," said Mrs. Linwood to her 
son. ** We do not know who he is ; we do not know his family 
or his lineage ; we must withdraw Edith from the influence of 
liis fa.*<*inations." 

I did not blame her, but I felt the sting to my heart's ooro. 
She saw the wound she had unconsciously nuide, and hastened 
to apply a balm. 

^ The husband either exalts, or lowers, a wife to the pootkn 
he occupies," said she, looking kmdly at me. 'She loMi her 

80 



850 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

own identity in his. Poverty would present no obstacle, for she 
has wealth suflicient to be disinterested, — but my daujAier 
must take ii stainless name, it* she relinquish her own. liu: 
why do I si>oak thus ? My poor, cripi»Ied child ! She La? •ii.- 
owned the thought of marriage. She has eliosiien voluutarilj ac 
unwcdded lot. She does not, cannot, will not think with aoy 
peculiar interest of this young stranger. No, no, — my EiliihL* 
set apart by her misfortunes, as some enshrined and holy Leiaj 
whom man must vainly love." 

I had never seen Mrs. Linwood so much agitated. Her eyes 
glistened, her voice faltered with emotion. Ernest, too, seemed 
groat ly troubhid. They had both been accustomed to look ujioa 
Kdiih as consecrated to a vestal life ; and as she had hitlierU) 
turned coldly and decidedly from the addresses of men, iht-y be- 
lieved her inaccessible to the vows of love and the bonds oi" 
wt.'dlock. The young Julian was a poet as well as an artist: liii 
pictures were considered masterjiieces of genius in the i»aiiuiiii: 
gall(!ries of tlie cities ; he was, as report said, and as he himstll' 
mudostly but decidedly allirmed, by birth and educsUion a gca- 
tleinan; ho had the prestige of a rising fame, — but he was a 
f;trang«,M\ I remembered my mother's history, and the youth of 
St. James seemed renewed in this interesting young man. I trem- 
bled for the iiiture ha])piness of Edith, who, whatever might be 
her (hM'isiou Avith regard to marriage, now unmistakably and 
romantically loved. Again I asked myself, ''might not this 
young inan be the son of the unfortunate Theresa, who under 
an assumed name was concealing the unhappy circumstances ot 
liisl)irthr" 

*• L<'t us leave this place,'* said Ernest, *^and put a stop at 
once to the danger we dread. Are you willing, Gabriella, to 
quit these sublime Falls to-morrow?" 

'• I sludl carry them with me/' I answered, laughingly. •• Tbej 
are henceforth a part of my own being." 

" They will j)rove rather an inconvenient accompaniment,'' 
replied he ; *' and if wo tuni our i'ace on our return to the White 
Mountains, will you brin-- thi ni back also .^ " 

** Certainly. Take lue the whole world over, and eveiy thing 




ERNEST LINWOOD. Ml 

of beauty and sublimity will cling to my soul inseparably and 
Ibrcver." 

** Will you ask Edith, if she will be ready ? ** 

She was in the room which she occupied with her mother, 
and there I sought her. She was reading what seemed to be a 
letter ; but as I approached her I saw that it was poetry, and 
firom her bright blushes, I imagined it an effusion of young 
Julian's. She did not conceal it, but looked up with such a rar 
diant expression of joy beaming through a shade of bashfulness, 
I shrunk from the task imposed upon me. 

" Dear Edith," said I, laying my hand on her beautiful hair, 
**your brother wishes to leave here to-morrow. Will you be 
ready?" 

She started, trembled, then turned aside her £Eu;e, bat I could 
£ee the starting tear and the deepened blush. 

** Of course I will," she answered, after a moment's pause. 
" It is far better that we should go, — I know it is, — but it 
would have been better still, had we never come." 

" And why, my darling sister ? You have seemed very 
liappy." 

" Too happy, Gabriella. All future life must pay the penalty 
due to a brief uifutuation. I have discovered and betrayed the 
weakness, the madness of my heart. I know too well why 
Ernest has hastened our departure." 

^ Dearest P^dith," said I, sitting down by her and taking her 
hand in both mine, ** do not reproach yourself for a sensibility 
so natural, so innocent, nay more, so noble. Do not, from mis- 
taken delicacy, sacrifice your own happiness, and that of another, 
which is, I firmly believe, forever intertwined with it Confide 
in your mother, — confide in your brother, who think you have 
made a solemn resolution to live a single life. They do not 
know this young man ; but give them an opportunity of knowing 
him. Ca^t him not off, if you love him ; for I would almost 
stake my life upon his integrity and honor." 

** Blessings, Ciabriella, for this generous confidenoo I ** she ex- 
claimed, throwing her arms round me, with all the impulsive- 
nesB of chiklhood ; << bat it is all in Tain. £& joa think I 



:Vr2 E R N ?: s T l i n w o o d . 

AvoiiM take advantage of Julian's uncalciilating love, and entail 
ii[>on liini for lif<' the support anil guardiansliip of this frail, 
ln'll)lo>s i'orm ? Do you think I would hang a dead, dull weii'Lt 
on the wing.- of his young amhition ? Oh, no ! You do uut 
know mo, Gabriella." 

" I know you have vciy wrong views of your&olfV I answontl ; 
'• and 1 f<.:ir you will do great wrong to others, if you do no; 
change them. You are not helpless. No bird of the wild- 
wood wings their way more fearlessly and lightly than yourself 
Y<Mi an^ not irail now. IJealth glows on your cheek and b<-ains 
in your eve. You cling to a resolution conceived in larlv 
yoriih, before you recovered from the effects of a iwiinful 
malady. A dull weight I Why, Edith, you would rest like 
down on his mounting wings. You would give them a iri'Te 
heavenly llight. Do not, beloved Edith, indulge these morMa 
feeling-. Tiiere U a love, stronger, deeper tlian a sister's affrc- 
tion. You feel it now. You forgive me for loving Emc^t. 
You ft)rgive him for loving me. I believe Julian worthy ot' 
your heart. Ciive him hojie, give him time, and he will i-orii^* 
erelong, crowned with laurels, and lay them smiling at yoar 
leet." ' 

*• Dear, insi)iring Gabriella ! " she exclaimed, ** jou inftirf 
new life and joy into my inmost soul. I feel as if I could dis- 
card tliese crutches and Avalk on air. No; I am not helph:??. 
If ther(i was need, 1 could toil for him I loved with all a 
woman's zeal. These hands could minister to his iiceessitits, 
tliis iieart be a shield and buckler in the hour of dane»T. 
Thank Heaven, 1 am lifted above want, and how blest to >han:^ 
llie gii'is of Ibrtune with one they would so nobly grace! Biil 
do you really tJjink that I ought to indulge such dreams? Am 
not I a eripj)l(; ? Has not God set a mark upon rac ? " 

** No, — }()u sliall not call yourself one. You are only lilted 
above the gro-s earth, becau.-e you are more angelic than the 
re>t of us. 1 h<\'ir your mother's coming footsteps ; I will leave 
you together, that you may reveal to her all that is passing in 
your heart." 

I lefl her ; and a^ I parsed Mrs. Linwood on the stain, and 




EBKE8T LINWOOD. 35S 

met her anxious eyes, I said : ^ Edith has the heart of a woman. 
I know by mj own experience how gently you will deal with 
it." 

She kissed me without speaking ; but I read in her expres- 
sive countenance that mingled look of grief and resignation 
with which we follow a friend to that bourne where we cannot 
follow them. Edith was lost to her. She was willing to for- 
sake her mother for the stranger's home, — she who seemed 
bound to her by the dependence of childhood, as well as the 
close companionship of riper years. I read this in her sad- 
dened glance ; but I did not deem her selfish. Other feelings, 
too, doubtless blended with her own personal regrets. She had 
no reason to look upon marriage as a state of perfect felicity. 
Her own had been unhappy. She knew the dark phantom that 
haunted our wedded hours ; and what if the same hereditary 
curse should cling to Edith, — who might become morbidly sen- 
sitive on account of her personal misfortune ? 

Knowing it was the last evening of our stay, I felt as if 
every moment were lost, passed within doors. It seemed to 
me, now, as if I had literally seen nothing, so stupendously did 
images of beauty and grandeur grow upon my mind, and so 
consciously and surprisingly did my mind expand to receive 
tliem. 

The hour of sunset approached, — the last sunset that I 
should behold, shining in golden glory on the sheeted foam of 
the Falls. And then I saw, what I never expect to witness 
a;rain, till I see the eternal rainbows round about the throne of 
GcmI, — three entire respondent circles, one glowing with seven- 
fold beams within the other, full, clear, distinct as the starry 
stripes of our country's banner, — no fracture in the smooth, 
majestic curves, — no dimness in the gorgeous dyes. 

And moonlight, — moonlight on the Falls I I have read of 
moonlight on the ruins of the Coliseum ; in the mouldering re- 
mains of Grecian elegance and Roman magnificence; but what 
is it compared to this? The eternal youth, the undecajring 
grandeur of nature, illumined by that celestial light whioh lends 

30 • 




354 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

glory to ruin3, and throws the illusion of beaut j over the A* 
turcs of decay ! 

Edith wandered with Julian in the stilly moonlight, and tbeir 
low voices were heard by each other amid the din ol* tLe ^oa^ 
ing cataract. 

Ernest was troubled. He was jealous even of a sister s love, 
and looked coldly on the aspiring Julian. 

" He must prove himself worthy of Edith," he said. ^ lie 
must not follow her to Grandison Place, till he can bring cre- 
dentials, establishing his claims to confidence and regard/* 

Before we parted at night Edith drew me aside, and told 
me that her mother had consented to leave the decision of her 
destiny to time, which would either prove Julian *s claims to 
her love, or convince her that he was unworthy of her regard. 
He was not permitted to accompany her home ; but she was sure 
he would follow, with testimonials, such as a prince need na 
blush to own. 

** How strange?, how very strange it seems," she said, hor 
eyes beaming with that soft and sunny light which comes fmin 
the dayspring of the heart, " for mc to look fonvard to a fulun^ 
such as now I see, through a flowery vista of hope and lovi-. 
How strange, that in so short a time so mighty a change shoiilil 
be wroupfhi ! Had Ernest remained single, my heai't woulJ 
have known no vacuum, so entirely did he fill, so exclusivelj 
did he occupy it. But since his marriage it has seemed a 
lonely temple with a deserted shrine. Julian has strewed 
flowers upon the altar, and their fragrance has perfunietl my life. 
Even if they wither, tluiir odor will remain and shed sweetness 
over my dying hour." 

Sweet, jingelic Edith! may no untimely blight fall on iby 
jrarhuul of lovi', no thorns be found with its glowing blossoms, 
no ranker-worm of jealousy feed on their early bloom. 

Tlie morning of our departure, as I looked back where 
Julian stood, pule and agitated, following the receding form of 
Edit}], with a glance of the most intense emotion, I saw a gen- 
tleman approach the pillar against which he was leaning, whose 
ui^pt.'arance riipl^ my attention. He was a stranger, who had 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 855 

probably arriyed the evening before, and, preoccupied as Julian 
"was, he extended his hand eagerly to meet the grasp of his. 
He was tall, much taller than Julian, and of a very stately 
mien. He looked as if he might be in the meridian of life, and 
yet his hair, originally black, was mingled with snowy locks 
mround the temples, and on the crown of his head. I saw this 
as he lifted his hat on approaching Julian, with the firm, proud 
step which indicates intellectual power. What was there about 
this stranger that haunted me long after the thunders of the 
cataract had ceased to reverberate on the ear ? Where had I 
seen a countenance and figure resembling his? Why did I 
leel an irresistible desire to check the rolling wheels that bote 
me every moment further from that stately form with its crown 
of living snow ? 

^ How long will you remain in that uncomfortable position ? ** 
asked Ernest The spell was broken. I turned, and met the 
glance that needed no explanation. This earnest scrutiny of 
a stranger excited his displeasure ; and I did not wonder, when 
I thought of the strange fascination I had experienced. I 
blushed, and drew my veil over my face, — resolving henceforth 
to set a guard over my eyes as well as my lips. It was the first 
dark-fliishing glance I had met since I had lefl Grandison 
Placo. It was the last expiring gleam of a baleful flame. I 
knew it mu.st be ; and, leaning back in the carriage, I sunk into 
one of those reveries which I used to indulge in childhood, 
— when the gates of sunset opened to admit my wandering 
spirit, and the mysteries of cloud-land were revealed to the 
dream-girl's eye. 




CHAPTER XLVI. 



The very evening after our return, while Dr. Harlowe was 
giving an account of his stewardship, and congratalating Edith 
and myself on the bloom and animation we had acquired, t 
gentleman was announced, and Richard Clyde entered. The 
hoartfc'lt, joyous welcome due to the friend who is just returned 
from a ibreign land, greeted his entrance. Had I known of his 
coming, I might have repressed the pleasure that now spon- 
taneously rose ; but I forgot every thing at this moment, but 
the companion of my childliood, the sympathizing mourner bj 
my mother's grave, the unrequited lover, but the true and con- 
stant friend. He was so nmch improved in person and man- 
ners ; he was so self-possessed, so manly, so frank, so cordial! 
He came among us like a burst of sunshine ; and we all — all 
but one — felt his genial influence. He came into the family 
like a long absent ton and brother. TVliy could not Ernest have 
welcomed him as such ? Why did he repel with coldness and 
su-pieioii the honest, ingenuous lieart that longed to meet his with 
iralernal warmth and confidence? I could not help drawing 
coniparisoMs unfavorable to Ernest. He, who had travelJed 
through the same regions, Avho had drank of the same inspiring 
streams i)f knowledge as the young student, who came fresh 
and buoyant from the classic halls where he had himself gained 
honor and distinction, — he, sat cold and reserved, while Richard 
disj)ensed life and brightness on all around. 

** Oil, how much this is like home ! " he exclaimed, when the 
lateness of the hour compelled him to depart ; " how happy, 
how grateful'^P'fci, to meet so kind, so dear a welpome. It 

(350) 




EBNBST LINWOOD. 857 

warmed my heart, in anticipation, beyond the Atlantic waves. 
I remembered the maternal kindness that cheered and sustained 
me in my collegiate probation, and blessed my dawning man- 
hood. I remembered Edith's heavenly music, and Grabri- 
eUa'8 " 

He had become so excited by the recollections he was cloth- 
ing in words, that ho lost the command of his voice as soon as 
he mentioned my name. Perhaps the associations connected 
with it were more powerful than he imagined ; but whatever 
was the cause he stopped abruptly, bowed, and lefi the room. 

Mrs. Linwood followed him into the passage, and I heard her 
telling him that he must consider Grandison Place his home 
indeed, for she felt that she had welcomed back another be- 
loved son. She was evidently hurt by the chilling reserve of 
£niest*s manners, and wLshed to make up for it by the cordial 
warmth of her own. 

^ There goes as fine a youth as ever quickened the pulses of 
a maiden*s heart,** said Dr. Ilarlowe, as Richard's quick steps 
were heard on the gravel walk ; ^ I am proud of him, we all 
ought to be proud of him. He is a whole-souled, whole-hearted, 
right-minded young man, worth a dozen of your fashionable 
milk-sops. He is a right down splendid fellow. I cannot imag- 
ine why this sly little puss was so blind to his merits ; but I 
supi>ose the greater glory dimmed the less." 

Good, excellent Dr. Ilarlowe ! Why was he always saying 
something to rous^ the slumbering serpent in the bosom of Er- 
nest ? Slumbering, did I say ? Alas I it was already awak- 
ened, and watching for its prey. The doctor had the simplicity 
of a child, but the shrewdness of a man. Had he dreamed of the 
sufTcring Ernest's unfortunate temperament caused, he would 
have bli.'*tered Km tongue sooner than have given me a moment's 
pain. He suspected him of jealousy, of the folly, not the mad- 
Tki^s of jealously, and mi.'^chievously liked to sport with a weak- 
ness which he sup|K>sed evaporated with the cloud of the brow, 
or vanished in the lightning of the eye. He little imagined the 
stormy gust tliat swept over us after his deparyu^ 

'' Mother ! " exclaimed Ernest, as soon wVv doctor ted 



858 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

closed the door, in a tone which I had never heard him use to 
her before, " I will no longer tolerate that man's impertint-nce 
and ])rfs:uni]^li()n. He never comes here that lie doe< nui uuer 
in-iihing words, whirh no gentleman should allow in hi? otni 
house. It is not the iir^t, nor the second, nor tlie third tixe 
that he ha> insulted me through my wife. His superior a??, 
and your profound respect for him, shall no longer prevent th* 
expression of my indignation, I shall let him kuow on wiiat 
terms he ever again darkens this threshold." 

" Krnest ! " cried his mother, with a look in which indisuation 
and grief struggled for mastery, " do you forget that it i? yo'jr 
mother whom you are addressing? — that it is lier threshold 
not yours on which you have laid this withering ban ? " 

"Had not Dr. Ilarlowe been your friend, and this houic 
youi*s, I should have told him my sentiments long s^incc : but 
while I would not forget my respect as a son, I must remember 
my dignity as a husband, and I will allow no man to treat mj 
wife with the familiarity he uses, polluting her wedded ean 
with allusions to her despainng lovers, and endeavoring indi- 
rectly to alienate her atlections from me." 

*' Stop, Ernest, you are beside yourself," said Mrs. Linwood, 
and the mounting color in lier face deepened to crimson, — •*yoa 
shall not thus a^^perse a good and guileless man. Your insane 
passion drives you fi'om reason, from Iionor, and from right. It 
dwarfs the fair pro]M)rtions of your mind, and deform?* its moral 
beauty. 1 have been wrong, sinful, weak, in yielding to your 
intirmity, and trying by every gentle and persuasive means to 
lead you into the green pastures and by the still waters of do- 
mestic! jx'ace. I have counselled Gabriella, when I have seen 
her young heart breaking under the weight of your suspicions^ 
to bow inickly and let the storm pass over her. But I do so no 
more. I will tell her to stand lirm and undaunted, and breast 
tln' tem[)est. I will stand by her side, and supjiort her in my 
ann«i, and shield her with my breast. Come, Gabriella, come, 
my child ; if my son ?r/7/ be unjust, will be insane, I will at least 
protect you from thtj consecpiences of his guilty rashness.* 

I sprang into her arms that opened to enfold mc, aod hid my 




EBNSSTLINWOOD. 859 

£ice on her breast I conld not bear to look upon the humilia- 
tioo of Ernest, who stood like one transfixed by his moth^s 
rebuking glance. I trembled like an aspen, there was some- 
thing so fearful in the roused indignation of one usually so 
calm and self-possessed. Edith sunk upon a seat in a passion 
of tears, and ^ oh, brother I — oh, mother ! " burst through 
thick-coming sobs from her quivering lips. 

** Mother I " exclaimed Ernest, — and his voice sounded hol- 
low and unnatural, ^- ^ I have reason to be angry, *- 1 do not 
deserve this stern rebuke, — you know not how much I have 
borne and forborne for your sake. But if my mother teaches 
that rebellion to my will is a wife's duty, it is time indeed that 
we should part.'* 

^Oh, Ernest!'* cried Edith; ^oh, my brother! you will 
break my heart.'* 

And rising, she seemed to fly to his side, and throwing her 
arms round his neck, she lifted up her voice and wept aloud. 

^Ilush, my daughter, hush, Edith," said her mother. ^I 
wish my son to hear me, and if they were the last words I ever 
cxi>ected to utter, they could not be more solemn. I have 
loved you, Ernest, with a love bordering on idolatry, — with a 
prido most sinful in a Christian parent, — but even the strength 
of a mother's love will yield at last before the stormy passions 
that desolate her home. The spirit of the Spartan mother, 
who told her son when he left her for the battle field, ' to return 
tcitJi his shield, or on it,' animates my bosom. I had far, far 
rather weep over the grave of my son, than live to blush for his 
degeneracy." 

** And I would far rather be in my grave, this moment," he 
answereii, in the same hoarse, deep undertone, ^ than suffer 
the agonies of the last few hours. Let mo die, — let me die at 
once; then take this young man to your bosom, where he has 
already :<upplanted me. I^Iake him your son in a twofold 
sense, for, by the heaven tliat hears me, I believe you would 
bless the hour that gave him the right to Grabriella's love." 

^ Father, forgive him, he knows not what he utters," mnr- 
mured his mother, lifting her joined hands to heaven. I 



;^;o ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Still clunp; to her in tmiiMinpr awe, forgetting my own ?omi 
in the dt»i>th and saoriMlness of hers. " Ernest," she said. In i 
loiidtT tone, *' I cannot continue this painful scene. I will p>tw 
my own clmniber and pray for you ; pitiy for your rolea*e frnrn 
tlni dominion of the powers of darkness. Oh, ray son I I 
tn'inble l\)r vou. You are stan(lin«r on the brink of a trrrible 
abyss. Th(j fiend that lurked in the bowers of Kden, and made 
its Howcrs dim with the smoke of fnitemal blood, is whisptTiDg 
in your ear. Beware, my son, beware. Kvery sigli and uir 
caused by the indulgence of unhallowed passion, erics as lou:lio 
Alinitrhty Gotl for vengeance as Abel's reeking hlood. C<»im. 
(jiabriella, I leave him to reflection and prayer. I leave him to 
Gud and his own soul. Come, Edith, leave him and follow mt." 

There was something so commanding in her accent and m:k2- 
nor I dared not resist her, though I longed to remain and whi<- 
l^tr words of peace and love to my unhappy husband. I knew 
that his soul must be crushed into the dust, and my heart bleJ 
for his sutferings. Edith, too, withdrew her clinging arm*, w 
pin.' dared not disobey her mother, and slowly and sadly followed 
us up the winding stairs. 

** Go to bed, my child," said she to Edith, when we reached 
the iipjKT platibrm. " May God in his mercy spare you from 
witnessing another scene like this." 

** Oh, mother ! I never shall feel happy again. My poor 
brotlier! you did not see him, mother, when you left him. Yoa 
did not look upon liim, or you could not have left him. There 
was death on his face. Forgive him, dear mother! take him 
baek to voiir heart.'* 

*• And do you think he is not here? " she exclaimed, prossinj 
lier hands on her heart, as if trying to sustain herself under an 
intense pain. *' Do you think he suffers alone ? Do you think 
J iiave IcJi liirn, but for his good? Do you think I would 
not now ;ila«llv told him in my arms and bathe his soul in the 
overflowing tenderness of maternal love? O child, childl 
Karih has no sounding line to fathom the depths of a mother's 
heart. Goo(l-nig]it. (iod bless you, my darling Edith." 

^•^VndGabriella?" 



BBNEST LIKWOOD. 861 

''WiU remain with me." 

Mrs. LiDwooJ, whose left Arm etiU encircled me, brought ma 
into tier chamber, and closed the door. She was excesdrelj 
pale, and I mechaaicallj gave her a glass of water. She 
ttuuked me ; and eeating herself at a little table, on which an 
astral lamp was burning, she began to turn the leaves of a 
Bible, which always lay there. I observed that her hands 
trembled and that her lips quivered. 

'■There is but one fountain which con refresh the fiunting 
Spirit," she paid, laying her hand on the sacred volume. " It is 
the fountain uf living waters, which, whosoever will, maj drink, 
•nd receive immortal strenglh." 

She turned the leaves, but there was mist over her vision, — 
ehc could not disiinguish the well-known characters. 

" Iteod for me, my bi^lovud Gabriella," said she, rising and 
motioning me to the sent she had quilted. " I was looking for 
the sixly-seeond Psalm." 

She seated herself in the shadow of the curtain, while I 
neri'cd myself Jbr the appointed task. My voice was at fint 
low and Iremutou?, bat as the sound of the words reached mj 
ear, ilicy |>cnctrated my soul, like a strain of solemn music I 
felt the divine influence of those brealliings of humanity, sonc- 
tificl by the inspiration of the Deity. I felt the same con- 
sciousnesi of man's inflignificanee a^ when I listened to Nioga- 
ra'" cicmal roar. And yet, if God cared for as, there was ex- 
altation and glory in ibf thought. 

'- Why art iliou ca-^t down,0 my soul? and why art thou dis- 
(|uii'tvil within ine ? hope thou lo God, for I shall yet praise 
liini, who is the health of my countenance and my God." 

** liii Oh," Mtiil .Mrs. Linwood, as I paused on this beautiful 
and consoling vcix: i "your voice is sweet, my child, and there 
is bulni in every lialluwud ivord." 

I tunivd lo the ninely-lli-^t Psalm, which J had so often read 
to tny own dcur mother, and which I had long known by heart ; 
then the hundred and sixteenth, which was a favorite of £r> 
nest's. My voice (altered. I thought of him in kmelinesa and 
anguish, and my tears blotted the sacred linei. We both r^ 
81 



362 ERNEST LIMWOOD. 

maincd silent, for the awe of Gkxi's spirit was npon u?, and Hat 
atmosphere maile holy by the incense of His breath. 

A low, i'iiiiit knock at the door. " Come in," said Mrs. La- 
wood, su[)posing it a servant. She started, when the door 
opened, and Ernest, pale as a ghost, etood on the threshold. I 
made a movement towards him, but he did not look at me. His 
eves were riveted on his mother, who had half risen at his en- 
trance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and ap- 
proaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, aad 
bowed his head in her lap. 

" Mother," said he, in broken accents, " I come, like the re- 
turnin;^ prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee^asd 
am no more worthy to be called thy son, — give me but the hiit- 
liug's place, provided it be near thy heart." 

" And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my be- 
loved, my only one ? " she cried, bending down aiid claspin^r li^ 
arms around him. ** Heavenly Father ! I thank thee for this 
lour. 

!X(.>v(.T had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when 
tlie holy tears of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks 
and baptized their sj)irits as in a regenerating shower. My own 
U'i\v< flowed in unison ; but I drew back, feeling as if it were 
sn(rili';ze to intrude on such a scene. My first impulse was to 
8t( a! from the room, leaving them to the unwitnessed indalgence 
ot' tliclr sacred emotions; but I must pass them, and I wouM 
not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against 

till Ml. 

Mis. JJnwood was the first to recognize my presence; she 
rai r.j her h(»ad and beckoned mo to approach. As I obeyed 
Ijcr nil >: ion, JOrnest rose from his knees, and taking my liand. beld 
it Un- a niDincnt closely, lirmly in his own ; he did not embrace 
ni«', a^ ln' had always <lono in the transports of reconciliation; 
lu; s('<rnc<i to hold me from him hi that controlling grasj), and 
tlKTc was .-oinethinir thrilling, yet re])ellmg, in the dark depths 
of lii> vyv:^ that held nn* hound to the sjwt where I stood. 

**Kemain whh my mother, Gabriel la," said he; ^'Igive you 




EKKE8T LINWOOD. 868 

bade to her guardianship, till I have done penance for the sins 
of this night The lips that have dared to speak to a mother, 
and such a mother, the words of bitterness and passion, are un- 
worthy to receive the pledge of love. Mj eyes are opened to 
the enormity of my offence, and I abhor myself in dust and 
•ahes ; my spirit shall clothe itself in garments of sackcloth and 
mourning, and drink of the bitter cup of humiliation. Hear, then, 
my solenm vow ; — nay, my mother, nay, Gabriella, — I must, I 
will speak. My Saviour fasted forty days and forty nights in 
the wilderness, he, who knew not sin, and shall not I, vile as a 
malefactor, accursed as a leper, do something to prove my peni- 
tence and self-abasement ? For forty days I abjure love, joy, 
domestic endearments, and social pleasures, — I will live on bread 
and water, — I will sleep on the uncarpeted floor, — or pass my 
nights under the cxmopy of heaven." 

Pale and shuddering I listened to this wild, stem vow, fearing 
that his reason was forsaking him. No martyr at the stake ever 
wore an expression of more sublime self-sacrifice. 

*^Alas, my son!" exclaimed his motlier, ^one tear such as 
you have shed this hour is worth a hundred rash vows. Vain 
and useless are they as the iron bed, the girdle of steel, the 
scourge of the fanatic, who expects to force by sclf-infiicted 
tortures the gates of heaven to open. Do you realize to wliat 
suffcringd you arc dooming the hearts that love you, and whose 
happiness is bound up in yours? Do you realize that yon are 
making our home dark and gloomy as the dungeons of the 
Inquisition ? " 

^ Not so, my mother ; Gabriella shall be free as air, free as 
before she breathed her marriage vows. To your care I commit 
her. Let not one thought of me cloud the sunshine of the do- 
mestic board, or wither one garland of household joy. I have 
im|)08('d this penance on myself in expiation of my offences as 
a son and as a husband. If I am wrong, may a merciful God 
forgive mc. The words are uttered, and cannot be recalled. I 
cannot add i)crjury to the dark list of my transgressions. Farewell, 
mother ; farewell, Gabriella ; pray for me. Your prayers wiD 



3G4 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

call down mini9tering angels, who shall come to me in the hour 
of nature's agony, to relieve and sustain me." 

He left us, closed the door, and passed down the stairs, vhkji 
gave a faint echo to his retreating footsteps. We looked at each 
other in grief and tunazement, and neither of us spoke for oer- 
eral minutes. 

** My poor, misguided hoy ! ^ at length burst from his mothers 
pale lips, " I fear I was too harsh, — I probed him too deeply,— 
I liave driven him to the verge of madness. Oh ! how difficult 
it is to deal with a spirit so strangely, so unhappilj constituted! 
I have tried indulgence, and the evil seemed to grow with 
ahiniiing rapidity. I have exercised a parent's authority, and 
behold the result I can do nothing now, but obey his pazl- 
iii^r injunction, — pray for him," 

She folded her hands across her knees, and looked down in 
deep, revolving thought. 

Forty days of gloom and estrangement ! Forty days ! Ob! 
^vhat a wilderness would life be during those long, long days! 
And wliat was there beyond? I dared not think. A dreary 
sha<lo\v of coming desolation, — like the cold, gray mist which 
wra}>i)ed me as I stood on the rocks of Niagara, hung over the 
1 inure. Would I lift it if I could? Oh, no! Perish the 
liand that would anticipate the day of God's revealing. 




CHAPTER XLVII. 

Ernest, jbithful to his vow, slept on the floor in the library^ 
and though he sat down at the table with us, he tasted nothing 
but bread and water. A stranger might not have observed 
any striking difference in his manners, but he had forbidden 
himself even the glance of affection, and his eye studiously 
and severely avoided mine. From the table he returned to the 
library, and shut himself up till the next bell summoned us to 
our now joyless and uncomfortable meals. 

I cannot describe the tortures I endured during this season 
of unnatural and horrible constraint. It sometimes seemed as 
if I should grow crazy ; and poor Edith was scarcely less un- 
happy. It was now that Mrs. Linwood showed her extraor- 
dinary powers of self-control, her wisdom, and intellectual 
stren<^h. Calmly and serenely she fulfilled her usual duties, 
as mistress of her household and benefactress of tlie village. 
To visitors and friends she was the same hospitable and clmrm- 
ing hostess tluit had thrown such enchantment over the granite 
walls of Grandison Place. She had marked out the line of 
<Iuty fur Edith and myself, which we tried to follow, but it was 
oi\t'i\ with sinking hearts and fiiltering footsteps. 

^ It' Ernest iram a mistaken sense of duty has bound himself 
by a painful and unnatural vow,*' said she, in that tone of grave 
6W(.'(.'tnt>ss which was so irresistible, ^ we must not forget the social 
and domestic duties of life. A threefold responsibility rests upon 
us, for we must endeavor to bear the burden he has laid down. 
He must not see the unlimited |X)wer he has over our happi- 
ness a power he is now unconsciously abusing. Smile, my 

31 • (»«*) 



3^)6 ERNEST LINWOOD, 

children, indulge in all innocent recreations ; let me hear once 
more your voices echoing on the lawn; let ine hear the sooilung 
notes of my Edith's harp ; let me sec my Gabriella's fing»:rs 
^seaving us wont, sweet garlands of flowers." 

And now, the house began to be filled up with visitor? from 
the city, who had been anxiously waiting the return of Mrs. 
Linwood. The character of Ernest for eceentrioity and moodi- 
ness wa>5 so well known, that the peculiar situation in which Le 
hud placed himself did not attract immediate attention. Bm I 
kiuw I must app(rar, what I in reality was for the lime, a 
necclected and avoided wife ; and most bitterly, keenly did 1 
suffer in conse<iuence of this impression. In spite of the pain 
it had caused, I wiis proud of Ernest's exclusive de%'otion, anJ 
the. iu)tic(> it attracted. I knew I was, by the mortification I 
e\[)erienced, when that devotion wjis withdrawn. It is true, I 
knew he was inflicting on himself torments to which the fabW 
agonies of Tiuitalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion combuied could not be 
cuni[.ared ; hut others did not ; they saw the averted eye, the 
coldness, the distance, the estrangement, but they did not, 
could not see, the bleeding heart, the agonized spirit hidden be- 
neath iJKi veil. 

J oii'j^lit to mention here the reason tliat 3Ii", Reffulas diJ 
not Come as usual to welcome us on our return, lie had bt?en 

api)oinkMl professor of mathematics in College, and had 

</i\cu up tin' charge of the academy where he had taught ::o 
many years with such indefatigable industry and distinginshi*il 
.-uecj's-. He was now visiting in Boston, but immediately on 
his return was to depart to the scene of his new labors. 

!Mr. lu'iiulus, or, as we should now call him, Professor Rega- 
ins, iiad so long been considered a fixture in town, tliis change in 
lii< (le.-iiny created (piite a sensation in the circle in which ho 
moved. It seenu'd im]>ossiblc to do without him. He was as 
mucli a jiart of the academy as the colossjd pen, whose gildtd 
fe.itlicrs still swept thi^ blue of ether. Were it not for the bligbt 
thai had fallen on luy social joys, I should have mourned the 
lo--^ of this steadfast friend of my oqdian years ; but now I 
couM not regret it. The mildew of suspicion rested on our in- 




EBNBST LIN WOOD. 367 

tercourse, and all its pleasant bloom was blasted. He was in 
Boston. Had he gone to ask the dauntless Meg to be the com- 
panion of his life, in the more exalted sphere in which he was 
about to move ? And would she indeed suffer her ^ wild heart 
to be tamed by a loving hand ? " 

What delightful evenings we might now have enjoyed had 
not the dark passion of Ernest thrown such a chilling shadow 
over the household ! Richard came almost every night, for it 
was liis home. He loved and reverenced Mrs. Linwood, as if 
she were his own mother. Edith was to him as a sweet and 
gentle sister ; and though never by word or action he manifested 
a feeling for me which I might not sanction and return as the 
wife of another, I knew, that no one had supplanted me in 
his affections, that I was still the Gabnella whom he had en- 
shrined in his boyish heart, — in "all save hope the same." 
He saw that I was unhiii)py, imd he pitied me. The bright 
sparkle of his eye always seemed quenched when it turned to 
me, and his voice when it addressed me had a gentler, more sub- 
dued tone. But his si)irit was so sparkling, so elastic, his man- 
ners so kind and winning, his conversation so easy and graceful, 
it was inijM)ssible for sadness or constraint to dwell long in his 
presence. Did I never contrast his sunny temper, his unselfish 
disposition, his ha[)i)y, genial temperament, with the darkness 
and ra<Kxlincss and despotism of Ernest? Did I never sigh that 
I had not given my young heart to one who would have trusted 
me even as he loved, and surrounded me with a golden atmos- 
phere of confidence, calm and beautiful as an unclouded autumn 
sky ? Did I not tremble at the thought of passing my whole 
life in the mi<lst of the tropic storms, the thunders and light- 
nings of passions ? 

And yet I loved Ernest with all the intensity of my first 
affection. I would have sacrificed my life to have given i)eace 
to his troubled and warring spirit. His self-imposed suffer- 
ings almost maddened me. My heart, as it secretly clung to 
him and followed his lonely steps as, faitliful to his frantic vow, 
he witli<lrew from domestic and social intercourse, — longed 



368 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

to express its emotions in words as wildly impassioned h 

these : — 

" Thou hast called me thino angel in moments of bliss, 
Still thine anj^el I '11 prove 'mid the horrors of thia. 
Through the funiacc unshrinking thy stcpss I *ll parsae. 
And shield thee, and save thee, and perish there too." 

Oh, most beloved, yet most wretched and deluded hasband, 
why was this dark thread, — this cable cord, I might say, — 
twisted with the pure and silvery virtues of thy character ? 

In the midst of this unhappy state of things, Margaret Mel- 
ville arrived. She returned with Mr. Regulus, who brought 
her one beautiful evening, at the soft, twilight hour, to Grandi- 
son Place. Whether it was the subdued light in which we fir*: 
bL-licld her, or the presence of her dignified companion, she 
certainly was much softened. Her boisterous laugh was quite 
melodized, and her step did not make the crj'stal drops of the 
girandoles tinkle as ominously as they formerly did. StilL it 
seemed as if a dozen guests had arrived in her single person. 
There was such superabundant vitality about her. As for 3Ir. 
Kei^ulus, he was certainly going on even unto perfection, for 
his improvement in the graces was as progressive and as steady 
as the advance of the rolling year. I could not but notice the 
extreme elegance of his dress. He was evidently "at some 
cost to entertain himself." 

*• Come up stairs with me, darling," said she to me^ catching 
my hand and giving it an emphatic squeeze ; ^ hel]) me to lay 
aside lliis uncomtortable riding dress, — besides," she whispered, 
*vr have so much to tell vou." 

As we left the room and passed Mr. Regulus, who was stand- 
ing near iIk^ door, the glance she cast upon him, bright, smiling, 
triiimj)hant, and hai)j)y, convinced me that my conjectures were 
riglit. 

*' .AFy dear creature !" she exchiimed, as soon as w<5 were in 
my own chamber, throwing herself down on the first scat she 
saw, and shaking her hair loose over her shoulders, " I am so 
glad to see you. You do not know how happy I am, — I mean 
bow glad I am, — you did not expect me, did you ? " 



r U N E ST LI N "NV O O D . o^/J 

^ I thought Mr. Rogulus had gone to see you, but I did not 
know that he would be fortunate enough to bring you back with 
him. lie discovered last winter, I have no doubt, what a pleas- 
ant travelling companion you were.'* 

'^Oh, Gabriella, I could tell you something bo strange, bo 
funny," — and here she burst into one of her old ringing 
langhs, that seemed perfectly uncontrollable. 

^I think I can guess what it is," I said, assisting her at her 
toilet, which was never an elaborate business with her. ** Ton 
and Mr. Regulus are very good friends, perhaps betrothed 
lovers. Is that so very strange ? ** 

^ Who told you ? " she exclaimed, turning quickly round, her 
cheeks crimsoned and her eyes sparkling most luminooslj,— 
** who told you such nonsense ? " 

^It does not require any supernatural knowledge to know 
this," I an.swered. ^ I anticipated it when you were in New 
York, and most sincerely do I congratulate you on the posses- 
sion of so excellent and noble a heart Prize it, dear Mar- 
garet, and make yourself worthy of all it can, of all it will 
impart, to ennoble and exalt your own.'' 

" Ah ! I fear I never shall be wortliy of it," she cried, giving 
me an enthusiastic embrace, and turning aside her head to hide 
a starting tear; ^but I do prize it, Gabriella, beyond all 
wonL*." 

*• Ah, you little gypsy ! " she exclaimed, suddenly resuming 
her old wild mimner, ** why did you not prize it yourself? He 
has told me all about the romantic scenes of the academy, — he 
says you transformed him from a rough boor into a feeling, 
tondor-hoarted man, — that you stole into his very inmost being, 
like the bri'ath of heaven, and nmde the barren wilderness 
blossom like the rose. Ah ! you ought to hear how beautifullj 
he talks of you. But I am not jealous of you." 

** Heaven forbid ! " I involuntarily cried. 

^ You may well say that," said she, looking earnestly in mj 
face ; " you may well say that, darling. But where is Ernest ? 
I have not seen him yet" 



370 ERNEST UN WOOD. 

'* He 13 in the library, I believe. He is not very well; tsd 
you know he never enjoys company much." 

** The same jealous, unreasonable hehig Lc ever was, I dare 
say," she velieraently exclaimed. " It is a shame, and a fin, 
and a burning sin, for him to go on as he docs. Mr. Regnlua 
says lie could weep tears of blood to think how you have sacri- 
ficed yourself to him." 

'•^ Margaret, — !Margaret! If you have one spark of love 
for me, — one feeling of respect and regard for Mrs. Linwooil 
your mothers friend and your own, never, never speak of 
Ernest's peculiarities. I cannot deny them ; I cannot deny thai 
they make mo unhappy, and fdl me with sad forebodings ; but 
li(* is my husband, — and I cannot hear him spoken of with bit- 
terncss. He is my husband ; and I love him in spite of L'i 
wayward humors, with all the romance of girlish passion, and 
all the tenderness of wedded love." 

" Is love so strong a-* to endure every thing ? ^ she a^ked. 

" It is so divine as to forgive every thing," I answered. 

*' Well I you arc an angel, and I will try to set a guard on thf^ 
wild lii)S, so that they shall not say aught to wound that di-ar, 
] precious, blessed little heart of yours. I will be just as g«H)<la5 
1 can be ; and if I forget myself once in a while, you must for- 
give me, — for the old Adam is in me yet. There, how dues 
tiial look ? " 

She had dress(Nl herself in a plain white muslin, with a white 
sa<h e:irele-slv ti«'d ; and a light fall of lace was the onlv cover- 
ini: to her mairnilicent arms and neck, 

** Why, you look like a bride, Margaret," said I. " Sur-Iv, 
yoii must tliink Mrs, Linwood is going to have a party to-nighL 
Ni'ver mind, — we will all admire you as much as if you were 
a bride. Let ino twist some of these white rosebuds in your 
hnir, to eoini)Iete the illusion." 

I took some from the vas(; that stood upon my toilet, and 
wreatlnd them in ln'r black, shining locks. She clapped her 
han<ls joyously as slie surveyed hrr image in the mirror; then 
laughed long and merrily, and a-iked if she did not look like a 
fool. 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 871 

'^ Do you think there is any thing peculiar in my dress ? " 
•he suddenly asked, pulling the lace rather strenaously, consid- 
ering iU gossamer texture. ^ I do not wish to look ridiculous.^ 

^ No, indeed. It b like Edith's and mine. We always wear 
white muslin in summer, you know ; but you never seemed to 
care much about dressing here in the country. I never saw 
you look so well, so handsome, Madge." 

" Tliank you. Let us go down. But, stop one moment Do 
you think Mrs. Linwood will think it strange that I should 
come here with Mr. Begulus ? " 

" No, indeed." 

** What do you think she will say about our — our engage- 
ment ? " 

" She will be very much pleased. I heard her say that if 
you should become attached to a man of worth and talents such 
as he |)ossesscs, you would become a good and noble woman." 

^' Did she say tliat ? Heaven bless her, body and souL I 
wonder how she could have any trust or faith in such a Green- 
land l>ear as I have been. I will not say anij for I think I 
have improved some, do n't you ? " 

'^ Yes ! and I believe it is only the dawn of a beautiful day 
of womanhood." 

Margaret linked her arm in mine with a radiant smile and a 
vivid blush, and tripped down stairs with a lightness almost 
miraculous. Mr. Regulus was standing at the foot of the 
stairs leaning on the bannisters, in a musing attitude. As soon 
as he saw us, his countenance lighted up with a joyful animation, 
and he otlered his arm to Margaret with eager gallantry. I 
wouilorcd 1 luid not discovered before how very good looking 
he was. Never, till he visited us in New York, had I thought 
of him but as an awkward, rather homely gentleman. Now 
his siuilo was quite beautiful, and as I accompanied them into 
the drawing-room, I thought they were quite a splendid-looking 
pair. Mrs. Linwood was in the front room, which was quite 
filled with guests and now illuminated for the night. 

^ Not now," I heard Margaret whisper, drawing back a little ; 
^ wait a few moments." 



{572 EIINKST LIN WOOD. 

" Oh ! it will be all over in a second," said he, taking h-?: 
hniul ami Icatliiig Ikt up to jMi*s. Linwood, who nii:-*'!! Irt cyw 
wHli nurj)rise at the unwonted ceremony of tht-ir api»ry:icii, tal 
tin' Mushing trepidation of Margaret's manner. 

'^ Permit me to introduce Mrs. llegulus," said ho, with a low 
bow ; and though he redderu^d to the roots of his liair, he IwkeJ 
round with a <miling and triumphant glance. Margaret curt- 
sied with mock humility down to the ground, then broakir:;: 
loose irom his han<l, she burst into one of her Madge "NVililliw 
laiiglis, and attemjjtt'd to escape from the room. I>ut she va« 
int<,'rci.'jiti*d bv Dr. llarlowo, who caught her by the ann ariti 
kissL'd her wiili audible good-will, declaring it was a physician'.* 
fi.'c. The announcement of the marriage was received wiib 
acclamation and chipi)ing of liands. You should have hr-iird 
Edith hiugh ; it was hke the chime of silvery bells. It was 
so ii>toni>hing she could not, would not believe it. It was oi- 
acily like one of Meg's wild pranks to jday such a laroe. 
lint it was a solemn truth. Margaret, the bride of the moruin;!. 
became tlu* i)re-iding (jueen of the evening; and had it not hfrn 
i\^y tile lonely occupant of the library, how gaily and liappilj 
the hours would hav«." flown by. How mu.st the accents i:' 
miitii tliai eciioc^d through the hall torture, if they ivacheil la? 
nhnbid an<l sensitive car! If 1 could only go to liim and ttU 
liiiu ilii' eau-e of ihe nnwonled merriment ; but I dared not *\o 
it. U would 1)0 an infringement of the sacredness of his expia- 
tory vow. He would know it, however, at the supj»er table; 
bill no I h(f tiiil not appear at the supper table, lie sent a 
mi s-ag<! to his mother, that he did not wish any, and the bos- 
j>ital)Ie boai"<l was fillc«l without him. 

'• J can hartlly forgive you, 3Iargaret,*' said Mrs. Linwood, 
'• for noi giviu'i u< an opportunity of providing a wedding fe:i*t. 
II'»\v much bntcr it would have been to liave had nhe jrolden 
rin^x and fatted calf of welcome, than this ])lain, evon'-daj 
meal." 

" "i our e^ ery-<lay mrals are better than usual wedding feasus" 
replied Margaret, ^' and I do not see why one should eat more 
on such an occasion than any other. You know leave notluDg 




ERKE8T LINWOOD. 878 



r the good things of this life, thoagh Mr. Begolos may be 

spointed." 

** Indeed, jou are mistaken/' said Mr. Begulus, blushing. ^ I 

ink 60 little of what I eat and drink, I ean hardlj tell the di& 

rence between tea and coffee.'' 

This was literallj true, and many a trick had been played 

xm him at his boarding place while seated at his meals, with 

I open book at the left side of his plate, and his whole mind 
igaged in its contents. 

^ Mrs. Regains," said Dr. Harlowe, giving dne accent to her 
rw name, ^ is, as every one must perceive, one of those ethereal 
tings who care for nothing more substantial than beefsteak, 
mn-pndding, and mince-pie. Perhaps an airy slice of roast 
rkey might also tempt her abstemiousness I ^ 
" Take care, Doctor, — I have some one to protect me now 
;ainst your lawless tongue," cried Madge, with inimitable good- 
unor. 

^ Come and dine with us to-morrow, and you shall prove my 
)rds a libel, if you please. I cannot say that my wife will be 
ie to give you any thing better than Mrs. Linwood's poor 
re, but it shall be sweetened by a heart-warm welcome, and we 

II drink the health of the bonny bride in a glass of ruby 
ne ! " 

And was it possible that no note was taken of the strange 
sence of the master of the table ? Was it no check to social 
f and convivial pleasure ? It undoubtedly was, in the first place ; 
t Margaret's exhilarating presence neutralized the effect pro- 
tced by his absence on the spirits of the guests. The occasion, 
>, was 60 unexpected, so inspiring, that even I, sad and 
mbicd as I was, could not help yielding in some degree to its 
iddening influence. 

Afler supper I had a long and delightful conversation with my 
2tamoq)]ioscd preceptor* He spoke of his marriage with all 
e ingenuousness and simplicity of a child. He thanked me 
r having told him, when I parted from him in New Toric, 
at he had an influence over Margaret that he had not 
earned of possessing. It nmde him, he said, more obseiranA 

82 



374 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

of her, and more careful of himself, till he really foand her t 
pleasant study. And somehow, when he had returned to his 
country home, it seemed dull without her ; and he found hiimi^ 
thinking of her, and then writing to her, and then going to sw 
her, — till, to his astonishment, he found himself a lover and a 
husband. His professorship, too, happened to come at the ex- 
act moment, for it emboldened him with hopes of success he 
could not have cherished as a village teacher. 

" How the wild creature happened to love me, a grave, un- 
gainly pedagogue, I cannot divine," Jie added ; ** but if gmi- 
tude, tenderness, and the most implicit confidence in her trnth 
and affection can make her happy, she shall never regret her 
heart's choice." 

Confidence did he say ? Happy, thrice happy Margaret ! 




CHAPTER XLVIII. 

It was an evening of excitement. Edith sang, and Mar- 
garet played some of her elfin strains, and Mr. Regulos made 
music leap joyously from the sounding violin. There was <me 
in the lonely library who might have made sweeter music than 
all, whose spirit's chords were all jangled and tunelera, and 
whose ear seemed closed to the concord of melodious sounds. 
My soul was not tuned to harmony now, but still there was 
sometliing soothing in its influence, and it relieved me from the 
nece.<$ity of talking, the exertion of seeming what I could not be. 
It was a luxury to glide unnoticed on the stream of thought, 
though (lark the current, and leading into troubled waters. It 
wa.') a luxury to think that th^ sighs of the heart might breathe 
unheard in the midst of the sofl rolling waves of Edith's mel- 
ody, or the dashing billows of Margaret's. Sometimes when I 
imagined myself entirely unobserved, and suffered the cloud of 
sadness that brooded over my spirits to float outwards, if I ac- 
cidentally raised my eyes, I met those of Richard Clyde fixed 
on mc with an expression of such intense and thrilling sympa- 
thy, I would start with a vague consciousness of guilt for hav- 
ing elicited such expressive glances. 

Madge wsis playing as only Madge could play, and Edith 
standing near the door that opened into the saloon in the front 
parlor. She looked unusually pale, and her countenance was 
languid. Was she thinking of Julian, the young artist at the 
Falls, and wondering if the brief romance of their love were 
indeed a dream ? All at once a change, quick aa the electric 
flash, passed over her face. A bright, rosy cloud rolled over its 
pallor, like morning breaking in Alpine snows* Even the paly 

(«76) 



nyr, E U N F. S T L I N W O O D . 

cr'M of licr hair seemed to catch the glory that so suddenly ari 
absuhitoly iUumined her. She was looking into the saloon, ai^ 
1 followed the direction of her kindling eyes. Julian va* as 
that moment cro.ssing the threshold. She liad seen liim ar 
rondinj:!^ thi; steps, and her heart sprang forth to meet him. I 
saw her hesitate, look i^ound for her mother, who was not near 
her, then, while the rosy cloud deepened to crimson, she floaied 
into the saloon. 

I went to Mrs. Linwood, who was in the back parlor, to ttll 
her of the arrival of the new guest. She started and change*! 
color. His coming was the seal of Edith*s destiny. '•! wlii 
not come," he had said to her in parting, " till I can bring 
abundant testimonials of my spotless lineage and irreproacba^ 
ble r("putaiion."' 

I had drawn her apart from the company, expecting she 
would be agitated by the annunciation. 

*' Should not Ernest know of this ? " I asked. " lie did w< 
abjure all the rites of hospitahty. Oh, for Edith's sake, teli 
him of Julian's arrival, and entreat him to come forth and vel- 
come him.'* 

'- 1 have been to him once and urged him -to g^ct IMr. Rt\!ju- 
liis, and merely oiler him the usual congratulations on his m-ir- 
riaire, but he i)ersistingly refused. I fear he is killing liim-tlf 
by this s])ii"it-scourging vow. I never saw him look so pale and 
wrciohcd as he does to-night. I dread more and more the coo- 
soquonces of this self-inilicted martyrdom." 

As I looked up in ]Mrs. Lin wood's face, on which the lisrlit 
of the oliandelier res[)lendently shone, I observed lines of care 
on lur smooth brow, which were not there two weeks before. 
TJie ('nLn:i\er was doiug his work delicately, secretly, but he waf 
at work, and it was P>nest\s hand that guided the steel as it left 
its d('cj)enin^ ;rroov(.'S. 

*'(>! that I dared to go to him I " said I; ''may I, dear 
motlier? I can but ])e denied. I will speak to him as a frienJ, 
coldly if it nmst be, but let me speak to him. He can but bid 
mr leave him." 

*'\ou too, my darling," said she, in a low, sad-toned Toice, 




EBNEST LIKWOOD 877 

'yon are wilting like a flower depriyed of sunshine and dew. 
But go. Take this key. He locks himself within, and all yoa 
can do he will not grant admittance. The only way is to use 
this pass-key, which you must return to me. I must go and 
welcome Julian.^ 

She put the key in my hand, and turned away with a si^ I 
tremhled at my own audacity.. I had never forced myself into 
his presence, for the chillness of his tow was upon me, and the 
hand that would have removed the icy barrier he had raised 
between us was numbed by its coldness. 

The way that led to the library was winding, sweepng by 
the lofty staircase, and terminating in a kind of picture gallery. 
Some of these were relics of the old Italian masters, and their 
dark, rich coloring came out in the lamp light with gloomy splen- 
dor. I had seen them a hundred times, but never had they im- 
pressed me with such lurid grandeur as now. One by one, the 
dark lines started on the canvas glowing with strange life, and 
standing out in bold, sublime relief. I hurried by them and 
stood in front of the library door with the key trembling in my 
hand. I heard no sound within. All was still as death. Per- 
haps, exhausted by his lonely vigils, he slept, and it would be 
cruel to awaken him. Perliaps he would frown on me in an- 
ger, for not respecting the sanctity of his vow. I had seen 
him at noon, but he did not speak or look at me ; and as his 
mother said, he had never appeared so pale, so heart-worn, and 
so wretched. He was evidently ill and suffering, though to his 
mother*s anxious inquiries he declared himself well, perfectly 
woll. There was one thing which made me glad. The gay, 
mingling laughs, the sounds of social joy, of music and mirth, 
came so softened through the long winding avenue, that they 
broke against the library in a soft, murmuring wave that could 
not be heard within. 

Why did I stand trembling and irresolute, at if I had no 
right to penetrate that lonely apartment ? He was my husband, 
and a wife*s agonized solicitude had drawn me to him. If ho 
repulsed me, I could but turn away and weep; — and was 
not my pillow wet with nightly tears ? 

82 ♦ 



378 ERNEST L I N W O O D . 

Softly I turned the key, and the door opened, as if touch- 
ed by invisible hands. He did not hear me, — I know he ili-l 
not, — lor he sat at the upper end of the room, on a window 
scat, leaning back against the drapery of the curtain that feL 
darkly b<.*liind him. His face was turned towards the winik'V. 
through whose parted damask the starry night looked in. Bu: 
though his face was partially turned from me, I could see is 
contour and its hue as distinctly as those of the marble bust* 
that surrounded him. He looked scarcely less hueless and ccJi 
and his hand, that lay embedded in his dark wavy hair, gleamed 
white and transparent Jis alabaster. I stood just within ibe 
door, with suspended breath and wildly palpitating heart, pray- 
ing for courage to break the spell tlmt bound me to tlie sjiOL 
All my strength was gone. I felt myself a guilty intruder in 
that scene of self-humiliation, penance, and prayer. Though 
reason condemned his conduct, and mourned over his inlatua- 
tion, the holiness of his purpose shone around him and sanoti- 
tied him from ridicule and contempt. There was something 
pure, S[nritual, almost unearthly in his countenance ; but suffi-r- 
iug and languor cast a shadow over it, that appealed to human 
sympathy. 

Jt" he would only move, oidy turn towards me! The Israel- 
ite s, at the foot of the cloud-girdled mount, whose fierj* zone 
they were lorbidden to piu^s, could scarcely have felt more awe 
and (head than I did, strange and weak as it may seem. I 
moved nearer, still more near, till my shadow fell up«>n hinu 
'I'hen lir -taried and ro.-e to his feet, and looked upon me, like 
out' .-uihlinly awakened from a deep sleep. 

** ( labrlL'lla ! " he exclaimed. 

Oh I I cannot describe the inexpressible softness, tenderness 
antl mii.-ie of his accent. It was as if the whole heart werft 
nulling into that single word. All my preconceived resolu- 
tions vani.-hed, all coldness, alienation, and constraint. •*! had 
found him whom my soul loved." My arms were twined 
around him, — 1 was clasped to his bosom with the most pas- 
sionate emotion, and the hearts so violently wi-enched asunder 
once more tlirobbed a«rainst each other. 




BBNBBT LIKWOOD. 879 

<< Ernest, beloved Ernest I " 

^ Temptress, sorceress I ** he suddenly exclaimed, pushing me 
from him with frenzied gesture, — ^you have come to destroy 
my soul, — I liave broken my solemn vow, — I have incurred 
the vengeance of Almighty Grod. Peace was flowing over me 
like a river, but now all the waves and billows of passion are 
gone over me. I sink, — I perish, and you, you, — GabrieUa, 
U is you who plunge me in the black abyss of perjury and 
guUt." 

I was terrified at the dark despair that settled on his brow. 
I feared his reason was forsaking him, and that I, in my rash- 
ness, had accelerated his doom. 

^Do not, do not talk so dreadfully, Ernest Forgive me, 
if I have done wrong in coming. Forgive me, if for o\ie mo> 
ment I recalled you to the tenderness you have so long abjured. 
But mine is the ofience, and mine be the sorrow. Do not, I 
pray you, blame yourself so cruelly for my transgression, if it 
indeed be one. Oh, Ernest, how pale, how wrotched you look I 
You are killing yourself and me, — your m6ther toa We 
cannot live in this state of alienation. The time of your vow is 
only half expired, — only twenty days are past, and they seem 
twenty years of woe. Dear Ernest, you are tempting Grod by 
this. One tear of penitence, one look of faith, one prayer to 
Christ for mercy, are worth more than years of penance and 
lonely torture. Revoke this rash vow. Come back to us, my 
Ernest, — come down from the wilderness, leave the desolate 
places of despair, and come where blessings wait you. Tour 
mother waits to bless you, — Edith waits you to greet and wel- 
come her Julian, — Margaret, a happy bride, waits your 
friendly congratulations. Come, and disperse by your presence 
tlie shadow that rests on the household." 

^ Would you indeed counsel me to break a solemn vow, Ga- 
brielb ? It may have been rash ; but it was a vow ; and were 
I to break it, I should feel forever dishonored in the sight of 
€rod and man." 

^ Which, think you, had more weight when placed in the 
scales of eternal justice, Herod's rash vow, or the life of the holy 



380 ERNEST LIKWOOD. 

prophet pacrificed to fulfil it? O Ernest! — wild, impobire 
words forced from the Jips of passion should never be made 
guides of action. It is wrong, I know, to speak unwisely and 
madly, but doubly, trebly wrong to act so." 

As thus I pleaded and reasoned and entreated, I kept my 
earnest gaze on his face, and eagerly watched, — watched widi 
trembling hope and fear the effect of my words. I had drawn 
back from him as far as the width of the library, and my hand* 
were clasped together and pressed upon my bosum. I did not 
know that I stood directly beneath the picture of the Italian 
flower-girl, till I saw his glance uplif\ed from my faee to hers, 
with an expression that recalled the morning when he found 
me gazing on her features, in all the glow of youth, love, joy. 
and hope. Then I remembered how he liad scattered my ro^e 
leaves beneath his feet, and what a prophetic sadness had then 
shaded my spirits. 

** Alas ! my poor Gabriella," he cried, looking down from the 
pieture to me. with an expression of the tenderest compassion; 
'' Alas, my ilower-girl ! how have I wilted your blooming youth! 
You are i>ale, my girl, and sad, — that bewitching smile no lon- 
ger parts your glowing lips. Would to God I had never cro?*ed 
your ])ath of roses with my withering footsteps! Would to God 
I iiad never linked your young, confiding heart to mine, so 
bla>ted by suspicion, so consumed by jealousy's baleful fires ! 
Yet, Heaven knows I meant to make you happy. I meant to 
watch over you as tenderly as the mother over her new-l)orn in- 
fant, — as holilv as the devotee over the shrine of the saint he 
adores. How faithless I have been to this guardianship of 
love, vou know too well. I have been a madman, a monster, — 
you know I have, — worthy of eternal detestation. But yoa 
have not suffered alone. Remorse — unquenchable fire; re- 
morse — undying worm, avenges every pang I have inflicted on 
yon. liemors(» goaded me to desjieration, — desperation prompt- 
ed the exi)iatory vow. It must be fulfilled, or I shall forfeit my 
sell-resixet, my honor, and truth. But I shall be better, stronger, 
— I feel I shall, after passing this stern ordeal. It will soon be 




BBNEBT LINWOOD. 881 

OTer, and I have a confidence so finn that it has the strength of 
conviction, that in this lonely conflict wjth the powers of dark- 
ness I shall come off conqueror, through God's assisting angels.** 
He spoke with fervor, and his countenance lighted up with 
enthusiasm. Bodilj weakness and languor had disappeared, 
and his transparent cheek glowed with the excitement of his 
feelings. 

^ If you are really thus supported by divine enthusiasm," I 
aaid, with an involuntary kindling of admiration, ^ perhaps I 
ought to submit in silence, where I cannot understand* F<»give 
me before I leave you, Ernest, this rash intrusioa. We maj 
finrgive even our enemies." 

" Forgive, Grabriella! OhI if you knew the flood of joy and 
rapture that for one moment deluged my soul I I dare not 
recall it Forgive, O my God I ** 

He turned away, covered his face with lus left hand, and 
made a repelling gesture with the other. I understood the 
motion, and obeyed it 

^' Farewell, Ernest," said I, slowly retreating ; ^ may angeb 
minister to you and bear up your spirit on their wings of 
love I " 

I looked back, on the threshold, and met his glance then 
turned towards me. Had I been one of the angels I invc^Led, it 
could not have been more adoring. 

And thus we parted ; and when I attempted to describe the 
interview to his mother, I wept and sobbed as if I had been 
paying a visit to his grave. And yet I was glad that I had 
been, glad that I had bridged the gulf that separated us, though 
but momentarily. 

Perhaps some may smile at this record. I have no doubt 
they will, and pronounce the character of Ernest unnatural 
and impossible. But in all his idiosyncrasy, he is the Ernest 
Linwood of Grandison Place, just such as I have delineated 
liim, just such as I knew and loved. I know that there are 
scenes that have seemed, that will seem, overwrought, and I 
have oAen been tempted to throw down the pen, regretting the 
task I liave undertaken. But, were we permitted to iteal be- 



382 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

liind the scenes of many a life drama, what startling discovenes 
would we make ! Reality goes beyond the wildest imaginina 
of romance, — beyond the majestic sweep of human geniiB. 
Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination conceived, 
the wild extent to which the passions of man may go. Tbc 
empire of passion is veiled, and its battle ground is secret 
Wlio beheld the interview in the library, which I have ja>: 
described ? "Who saw him kneeling at his mother's feet at the 
midnight hour ? Or who witnessed our scenes of agony and 
reconciliation in the palace walls of our winter home? Ah! 
the world sees only the surface of the great deep of the heart. 
It has never plunged into the innermost main, — never beheld 
the seething and the rolling of the unfathomaJble mystery : — 



And where is the diver so stont to go, — 
I ask ye again — to the deep below ? " 



Well do I remember the thrilling legend of the roaring 
whirlpools, tlie golden goblet, and the dauntless diver, and weQ 
do I read its meaning. 

O Ernest ! I have cast the golden goblet of happiness into 
a maelstrom, and he alone, who walked unsinking the waves 
of Galilee, can bring back the lost treasure from the dark and 
boiling vortex. 




CHAPTER XLIX. 

Julian was worthy of Edith. His parentage was honorable 
and pure, his connections irreproachable, and his own character 
noble and unblemished. Beason could oppose no obstacle, and 
the young artist was receiTcd into the family as the betrothed 
of the lovely lame girL 

The romantic idea which had suggested itself to my mind, that 
he might.be the son of Ther^ and my own half-brother, had 
vanished before the testimonies of his birth. Another day- 
dream too. I had always looked forward to the hour when 
Richard would transfer his affections to Edith, and be rewarded 
by her love for his youthful disappointment. But she was 
destined to reign in undivided sovereignty over a heart that had 
never been devoted to another; to be loved with all the fervor 
of passion and all the enthusiasm of genius. 

It was the day of social gathering at Dr. Harlowe*8 ; but I 
remained at home. I felt as if I could not be missed from the 
circle in which Madge, in bridal charms, sparkled a ruby gem, 
and the fairer Edith shone, a living pearL Though scarcely 
one year a wife, the discipline of my wedded experience had so 
chastened and subdued me, I seemed to myself quite a matrmi, 
beside those on whom the morning glow of love and hope were 
beaming. Madge and Edith were both older than myself, and 
yet I had begun to live far earlier. 

In the later part of the day, Mrs. Linwood, who had also 

remained at home, asked me to accompany her in a ride. She 

wished to visit several who were sick iad afflicted, and I always 

felt it a privilege to be her companion. 

^ Will you object to calling here ? ** she asked, when we ap- 

(Ml) 



381 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

proacbed the old gray cottage, once my mother's home and my 
own. '* There is a sick woman here, whom I wish to see. You 
can walk about the green skirting the woods, if you prefer. 
This enchanting breeze will give new life to your body and 
new brightness to your spirits." 

I thanked her for the permission, knowing well the kind re- 
gard to my feelings which induced her to give it. She knew 
sad memories must hang around the apartments where my 
mother and the faithful Peggy had suffered and died ; and that it 
would be a trial to me to sec strangers occupying the places so 
hallowed by association. 

Time had been at work on that old cottage, with its noise- 
less but effacing fingers. And its embroidering fingers too, for 
the roof from which many a shingle had fallen, was green with 
garlands of moss, wrought into the damp and mouldering wood 
witli exquisite grace and skill. I turned away with a sigh, and 
beheld infancy by the side of the humble ruin, the oriental 
palace which was my bridal home, and wondered at the mar- 
vellous changes of life. 

I wandered to the welling spring by whose gushing waten 
I had so oflen sat, indulging the wild poetry of my childish 
imagination. I gazed around, scarcely recognizing the once 
enchanting spot. A stone had literally rolled against the mouth 
of the foimtain, and the crystal diamonds no longer sparkled in 
the basin below. An awkward pump, put up near the cabin, 
cx])lained tliis appearance of neglect and wildness. The strft 
grassy slope where I used to recline and watch the fountains 
silvery play, was overgrown with tall, rank, rustling weeds, 
among which I could distinguish the deadly bloom and sick- 
ening odor of the nightshade. There was a rock covered with 
tlio brightest, richest covering of dark green moss, on which I 
soatod myself,. and gave myself up to the memories of the past. 
Porhaps this was the same rock on which Richard Clyde and 
I had often sat side by side, and watched the shadows of twi- 
li^lit purple the valley. 

I untied my bonnet and laid it on the long grass, for I WM 
shaded from the western sun, and the breeze blew fresh and 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 885 

pure from the hills he was about to crown with a right royal 
diadem. Wliile I thus sat, I heard footsteps quick and eager 
echoing behind, and Richard Clyde bounded down the slope 
and threw himself on the ground at my side. 

** Thank heaven," he exclaimed, ^ I have found you, Gabri- 
ella, and found you alone I " 

Ills manner was hurried and agitated, his eyes had a wild 
expression, and tossing aside his hat, he wiped thick-coming 
drops of perspiration from his forehead. 

His words, and the unusual excitement of his manner, alarmed 
me. 

^What has happened, Richard? Where have you sou^t 
me? AMiat tidings have you to communicate? Speak, and 
tell me, for I tremble with fear." 

^ I am ffO agitated," he cried, sitting down on the rock at my 
side, and taking one of my hands in his. I started, for his was 
so icy cold and tremulous, and his face was as pale as Ernest's. 
He looked like one who had escaped some terrible danger, and 
in whose bosom horror and gratitude were struggling for mas- 
tery. 

^ Is it of Ernest you have come to tell me ? " I asked, with 
blanclied lips. 

** No, no, no ! I know nothing of him. It is of myself, — 
of you, I would speaW. I have just made the most astonishing 
discovery ! Never till now have I heard your real name and 
early histor}-. O ! Gabriella you whom I have loved so long 
with sucli fervor, such passion, such idolatry, — you (O right- 
eous God forgive me !) are the daughter of my father, — for 
Theresa La Fontaine was my own mother. Gabriella,— sis- 
ter, — beloved ! " 

He clasped me to his bosom ; he kissed me again and again, 
weeping and sobbing like a child. In broken words he deplored 
his sinful passion, entreating me to forgive htm, to love him as 
a brother, to cling to him as a friend, and feel that there was 
one who would live to protect, or die to defend me. Bewildered 
and enraptured by this most untliought o^ and astounding dis- 
covery, my heart acknowledged its truth and gfewed with grati- 

33 



3tiG ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

tudc anil joy. Richard, the noble-hearted, pliant Tliebanl,wi^ 
my brother! My soul's desii*e was satisticd. How 1 lud 
yearned lor a brother! and to find him, — and such a brridi'T' 
Oh ! joy unsi)eakable. Oh ! how stnuige, — how pa^^iIi; 
strange, — how almost passing credulity ! 

At any moment this discovery would have been welwmrl 
with rapture. But now, when the voluntary estrangement d 
Ernest had thrown my warm affections back for the time into 
my own l)o>om, to pine lor want of cherishing, it came hkv a 
burst of sunslune after a long and dreary darknes.^, — like the 
music of gushing waters to the feverish and thirsty pilgrim. 

]\Iy heart was too full for questions, and his for explanatidiN 
They would come in due time. He was mt/ brother^ — that wa? 
enough. P^rnest could not be jealous of a brother's love, lie 
would own with pride the fraternal bond, and forget the tluher's 
crimes in the son's virtues. 

It seemed but a moment since Richard had called me sL«ter. 
Neither of us Imd spoken, for tears choked our words ; but our 
arms were still entwined, and my heail rested on bis bosom, ia 
nil the abandonment of nature's holiest feelings. All at once I 
heard a rustling in the grass, soil and stealthy like a gliding 
snake. I raised my head, looked back, looked up. 

IMerciful Fatlier of heaven and earth I did 1 not then pass 
tlie agonies of death? 

1 saw a face, — my God I how dark, how deadly, how terrible 
it was ! I knew that face, and my heart was rllted as if by a 
tliunderbolt. 

The loud report of a pistol, and a shriek such as never bc- 
iure i»u(Ml from mortal lips, bursting from mine, were simul- 
taneous sounds. Richard fell back with a deep groan. Tben 
there semicd a ru.shing sound as the breaking up of the great 
dcei), a heaving an<l tossing Jikc the throes of an earthquake: 
then a sinking, sinking, lower and lower, and then a cloud black 
as iiiglit and heavy as iron came lowering and crushing mo,— 
m<', and the bleeding Richard. All was darkness, — silence, 
— oblivion 




CHAPTEE L. 

■ 

A LIGHT, soft and glimmering as morning twilight, floated 
round me. Was it the dawn of an eternal morning, or the lin- 
gering radiance of life's departing day ? Did my spirit ani- 
mate the motionless body extended on that snowy bed, or was 
it hovering, faint and invisible, above the confines of mortality ? 

I was just awakened to the consciousness of existence, — a 
dim, vague consciousness, such as one feeb in a dissolving dream* 
I seemed involved in a white, transparent cloud, and reclining 
on one of those downy-looking cloud-beds that I have seen wait- 
ing to receive the sinking sun. 

While thus I lay, living the dawning life of in&ncy, the 
white cloud softly rolled on one side, and a figure appeared in 
the opening, that belonged to a previous state of existence. I 
liad seen its mild lineaments in another world ; but when, — - 
how long ago ? 

My eyes rested on the features of the lady till they grew 
more and more familiar, but there was a white cloud round her 
face, that threw a mournful sliadow over it, — that I had never 
seen before. Again my eyelids closed, and I seemed passing 
away, where, I knew not ; yet consciousness remained. I felt 
soil, trembling kisses breathed upon my face, and tears too^ 
mingling with their balm. With a delicious perception of ten- 
derness, watchfulness, and love, I sunk into a deep, deep 
sleep. 

When I awoke, the silver lustre of an astral lamp, shaded 

by a screen, glimmered in the apartment and quivered like 

moonbeams in the white drapery that curtained the bed* I 

knew where I was, — I was in my own diambery and the la^ 

(W) 



v;^.S E U N E 3 T L I X W O O D . 

who sat by my bedside, iind whose prolile I beheld thronghila 
parted folds of the curtains, was Mi*s. LinwooJ- And yoi, liw 
strange! It must have been years since wc liad met, ford* 
lovely brown of her hair was now a pale silver «^y, and as 
liad laid its whherinj:; hand on her brow. With a faint crv.I 
ejaculated her name, and attempted to raise my head from ite 
pillow, but in vain. I had no power of motion. Even the «• 
ertion of uttering her name was beyond my strength. She ryH\ 
bent over me, looked earnestly and long into the eyes uplifted 
to luM* face, then dropping on her knees and clasping her haD>i>, 
her s])irit went upwaixLs in silent prayer. 

As thus she knelt, and I gazed on her upturned countenaDce, 
sha«led by that strange, mournful, silver cloud, my thougha 
began to shape themselves slowly and gradually, as tlie feaiiii>5 
of a landscape through dissolving mists. They trembled a? 
1h(? foliagii trembles in the breeze that disperses the vajwre. 
Imagi.s of the past gained distinctness of outline and colorin::. 
and all at once, like the black hulL broken mast, and rent jiails 
of a wreck^nl vessel, one awful scene rose before me. The fut-e, 
like, that of ilic angel of death, the sound terrible as the thunder^ 
of doom, the bleeding body that my arms encircled, the destroy- 
ing hu>l>and, — the victim brother, — all came biick to mc; 
lill', — memory, — grief, — horror, — all came back. 

"Knu'stl liichard!" burst in anguish from my feeble lip% 

^"•Tliey live! my child, they live I" said Mrs. LinwuoJ. 
risiiiT tVoiii her knees and taking my passive hand in lx>th hers; 
*' hilt :i-k nothing now ; you have been very ill, you are weak as 
an infant; you nnist be tranquil, patient, and submissive; aiiJ 
giah'fnl, too, to a God of infinite mercy. When you arcstnmjrer 
I will talk to you, but not now. You must yield yourself lo my 
guidance, in tlie spirit of an unweaned child." 

*'Tli(y live!" repeated I to myself, **my God, I bless tlioe! 
I lie at lliy fuoistool. I am willing to die; I long to die. Let 
the waves of cteniitv roll over mv soul." 

Jlusband and hrodicr! tliey lived, and yai neither came tome 
on my eoueli of sickness. l>ut Richard I had not I seen him 
bUieding, in-^en-ihle, the image of death? ho lived, yet he might 




EBKEST LIKWOPD. 889 

be on the borders of the grave. But she had commanded me to 
be silent, submissive, and grateful ; and I tried to obey her. My 
physical weakness was such, it subdued the paroxysms o£ mental 
agony, and the composing draught which she gave m^ was A 
blessed Nepenthe, producing oblivion and repose* 

The next day I recognized Dr. Harlowe, the excellent and 
beloved physician. When I called him by name, as he stood by 
tbe bed, counting my languid pulse, the good man turned 
•side his head to hide the womanish tears that moistened his 
cheeks. Then looking down on me with a benignant smiley he 
said, smoothing my hair on my forehead, as if I were a little 
child — 

'^ Be a good girl ; keep quiet; be patient as a lamb, and yoa 
will soon be well." 

" How long have I been ill. Doctor? '* I asked. ^ I am very 
foolis^h, I know ; but it seems as if even you look older than 
you did." 

^ Never mind, my dear, how long yoa have been sick. I 
mean to have you well in a short time. Perhaps I do lodL a 
little older, for I have forgotten to shave this moming.** 

While he was speaking, I oaught a glimpse of the lawn 
through a slight opening in the window curtain, and I uttered 
an exclamation of amazement and alarm. The trees which I 
had last beheld clothed in a foliage of living green, were covered 
with the golden tints of autumn ; and here and there a naked 
bough, with prophetic desolation, waved its arm across the 
sky. 

Where had my spirit been while the waning year had rolled 
on ? Where was Ernest ? Where was Richard? Why was I 
forsaken and alone ? 

These questions quivered on my tongue, and would haTC ut- 
terance. 

** Tell me. Doctor, — I cannot live in this dreadful saspense." 

He sat down by me, still holding my hand in his, and prooi- 
ised to tell me, if I would be calm und passive. He told Mi 
that for two months I had been in a state <^ alternate insensi* 
bility and delirium, that they bad despaired of my lift, and tbit 

83» 



390 ERNEST L I N W O O D . 

they wolcomed mc as one risen from the grave^ He lulJ k 
that Ernest had left homo, in consequence of the prayers U 
his mother, till Richard should recover from the ertV^ris of ia* 
wound, which they at first feared would prove fatal ; that Rkb- 
ard was convalescent, was under the same ixK)f with xne. aod 
would see nie as soon as I could hear the meeting. 

*• Ernest knows that he is my brother, — he knows that I am 
innocent," I exclaimed, my whole soul trembling on his an^wtr. 

" I trust he knows it now," he replied, with a troubled coan- 
tenance. " His mother has written and told him alL Wc were 
ignorant ourselves of this, you must recollect, till Richard was 
able to explain it." 

" And he went away believing me a wretch ! " I cried, in a 
tone of unutterable agony. " He will never, never return I" 

" My dear cliild," replied Dr. Ilarlowe, in an accent of kinJ 
authority, '• you have no right to murmur ; you have h^n 
spared the most awful infliction a sovereign God could lay 
ui)ou you, — a brother's life taken by a husband's hand. Praise 
the Almij2;lity day and night, bless Him without ceasing, ilui 
lie has lifted from your bosom this weight of woe. IJe re«»n- 
ciled to your husband's absence. Mourn not for a separation 
wliich may j)rove the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon iMiih. 
All may yel be well. It will be, if God wills it ; and i<' He wills 
it not, my dear child, you must then lay your hand on your 
nioirili, and your mouth in the dust, and say, *It is the Lord, let 
niin do what seemeth "jood in His si;xht.*" 

*• I know it, — I feel it," I answered, tears raining on my pil- 
low : '* but let nic see my brother. It will do me good." 

'• r>y and by," said he ; " he is not very strong himself yet. 
TIk' young rascal! if he had only confided to me the seciyt 
with which his heart was bursting! But there is no use in cry- 
ing over burnt bread. We must keep it out of the fire next 
time." 

The entrance of Edith checked this conversation, and it was 
well. She came with her usual gentle motion, and fair, pitying 
countenance, and dill'used around her an atmosphere of divine 
re])ose. My brain, relieved of the dreadful tension of suspensev 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 891 

throbbed soft aad cool beneath the snow of her loTing fingers* 
She, too, was pale and wan, but she smiled upon me with glis- 
tening eyes, and whispered words of sweetest consolation. 

It was not till after the lapse of several days that I was per- 
mitted to sec Richard, and then the doctor said he deserved a 
good whipping for insisting on coming. He came into the room 
leaning on the arm of Dr. Uarlowe, and supported on the other 
side by Mrs. Linwood. He looked like the shadow of his 
fimner self, — so white, so thin and languid, and his coante- 
Bance showed as plainly as words could speak, that he was 
■truck with the same sad change in me. 

^Now no heroics, no scene," said the doctor; ^saj how do 
you do, and shake hands, but not one bit of sentiment,— I fiM>> 
Ind tliat entirely." 

^ My sister, my dear sister ! " said Richard, bending down and 
kissing my forehead. He reeled as he lifted his head, and 
would have fallen had not Dr. Ilarlowe's strong arm supported 
him. 

I longed to embrace him with all a sister's fondness, and 
pour out on liis bosom all my sorrow and my love; but the 
doctor was imperative, and made him recline in an easy-chair 
by the bedside, threatening him with instant dismission if he 
were not iK'Hectly quiet and obedient I saw Richard start 
and sliudder, as his eyes rested on my lefl arm, which hung 
over the counterpane. The sleeve of my loose robe had 
flipped up, baring the arm below the elbow. The start, the 
shudder, the look of anguish, made me involuntarily raise it, 
and then I saw a scar, as of a recently healed wound just be- 
low the (>ibow. I understood it alL The ball that had pene- 
trated Ills back, had passed through my arm, and thus prevented 
it from reaching the citadel of life. That feeble arm had been 
his suf(.*;;uard and his shield; it had intercepted the bolt of 
death ; it had barricaded, as it were, the gates of helL 

Mrs. Linwood, who was standing by me, stooped down, kissed 
the scar, and drew the sleeve gently over it. As she bowed 
her head, and I saw the silver shadow on her late dark, browa 
hair, I felt how intense must have been the suffering that 



302 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

wrouglit this wondrous change, — and I resolved to bear ra- 
niunuuring my own sorrows, rather than add a feather's welgk 
to her burden of woe. 

I remembered liow the queenly locks of Marie Antointne 
were whitened in one night of agony. Perhaps mj own diik 
tresses were crowned by premature snow. I had not seen my- 
self since the green of summer had passed into the **sereind 
yellow letif," and perhaps the blight of my heart was visible on 
my brow. When I was alone with Edith, I surprised her by 
asking if my hair were not white. She smiled, and bringing i 
toilet glass, held it before me. What was mj astonishment to 
see my hiiir curling in short waves round my face, like the locks 
of childhood! And such a face, — so white, so colorless. I 
hardly recognized myself, and pushing back the glass, I burst 
into t(!ars. 

** Dear Gabriella ! " said Edith, quite distressed, ** I am sony 
tlu^y cut off your beautiful hair. But the doctor said it most be 
done. It does not spoil you, though. You do not know bow 
sweetly childish it makes you look." 

'^ I care not for the looks, Edith ; it is not that. But it is so 
dreadful to think of so many clianges, and I unconscious of alL 
Such a long, dreary blank! Where was my soul wandering? 
^\'hat fearful scenes may hereafter dawn on my memory? 
lUauty ! No, Edith ; think not I weep for the cloud that has 
|)a-so(l over it. The only eyes in which I desired to appear 
l()v<*lv, will never behold me more." 

*' You will not be the only sufferer, Gabriella," said Edith, 
iiiounifully. '^ A dreadful blow lias fallen upon us all ; but for 
oui* mother's sake, if not for a greater, we must endeavor to 
submit." 

** Tell me, Edith, what I dare not ask of her, tell me where 
/ic is gone, and tell me the i)articulars of those first dark houn 
win 11 my soul was in such awful eclipse. I must know ; and 
wlicu oncij told, J shall be resigned, whatever be my fate," 

Edith seated hcr.-elf on the side of the bed, and leaned back 
so that I could not look in her face. Then putting her anns 
round me, she drew me towards her, and made me rest agunit 
her shoulder. 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 393 

I ^ If you grieve to listen, think how painful it is for me to re- 
[ late,** said she. 

" I will," I answered ; " I shall have strength to hear what- 
ever you have fortitude to tell." 

^ You must not ask a minute description of what will always 
be involved in niy remembrance in a horror of thick darkness. 
I know not how I got home from Dr. Harlowe's, where the 
tidings reached me. My mother brought you in the carriage, 
supported in her arms ; and when I first saw you, you were 
lying just where you are now, perfectly insensible. Richard 
was carried to Dr. Harlowe's on a litter, and it was then feared 
he might not live." 

Edith's voice faltered. 

^ It was after sunset. The saloon was dark, and all was 
gloom and confusion in the household. Mamma and I were 
standing by your bed, with our backs to the door, when we 
beard a hoarse, low voice behind us, saying, — 

'^ * Ls she dead ? ' 

^ We turned, and beheld Ernest right in the door way, look- 
ing more like a spectre than a human being. 

" * No, no,* answered my mother ; and almost running to meet 
him, she seized him by the arm, drew him into the chamber, 
and closed the door. He struggled to be released; but sho 
bconied to have the streiigth of numbers in her single grasp. 

^ ^* ' She is not dead,* said she, pointing to the bed, ' though she 
hears, sees, knows nothing; but Richard will die, and you will be 
arrested jl-* a murderer. You must not Unger here one moment. 
Go, and save yourself from the consequences of tliis fatal act. 
Go, if you would not see me, your motlier, die in agony at your 
feet.** 

*' Oh I Gabriella, had you seen her then, her who has such sub- 
lime self-eontrol, prostmte at his feet, wringing her hands and 
entreating him to fly before it was too late, you would not won- 
der that the morning sun shone on her silver hair. 

** * I will not fly the death for which I groan,' cried Ernest. 
' Had I ten thousand hves, I would loathe and curse them alL' 



394 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" * Parricide, parncidc/ exclaimed my mother^ * wo, wo le V) 
liiin who ?i)iirn.s a kneeling mother's praj'cr.' 

** ' Oh ! my mother,' cried he, endeavoring to raise her fpm 
the ground, while he shook as if with ague shivcrings, *I da 
not spurn you ; but why should I live, with a brand blacker tks 
Cahi's on my heart and soul, — crushed, smitten, disbunored, 
and undone ? ' 

*• ' Forbear, my son. This blighted form is sacred as it is spot- 
less. Has not blood quenched your maniac i)assion?' 

" The eyes of Ernest flashed with lurid fire. 

*^ * Locked in each other's arms they fell,' he muttered throogi 
his shut leclh, ' heart to heart, mother. I saw them, and GoJ, 
who will judge me, saw them. No, she is Jalse^ faUey false,^ 
false as the lost angels who fell from paradise into the burning 
pit of doom.' 

*' But what am I doing, Gabriella? I did not mean to rep«c 
this. I had become so excited by the remembrance of that 
tcrrilJe scene, I knew not what I was saying. You cannot bear 
it. I must not go on. What would my mother, what wouM 
Dr. llarlowc say, if they knew of this?" 

1 entreated her to continue. I told her that notliin'r she had 
^^ai(l was half so dreadful as my imagination had depicted, that I 
grew strong with my need of strength. 

"* And you and your mother believed him,** I said, with a«ton- 
isliing eahnnes>; ; "you knew not that Richard was my brother.' 

" Had it not been for your wounded arm," rt»plied Edith, lay- 
ing lier hand gently on the scar, "we should liavc supiNi^ed he 
was under a strong d(?hisi(m to believe a lie. A]>peaniuce3 
wivo against you, and your condemnation was my brother's pal- 
liation, if not ac<iuittal. My mother continued her supplicationi;, 
niinglcd widi tears and sighs that seemed to rend the lile 
from her bosom; and I, Gabriella, do you think J was silent and 
]»:i-.-ive? I, who would willingly have laid down my life for 
iii.-? AVe prevailed, — he yiehlod, — he left us in the darkness 
of night, — th«* darkness of despair. It is more than two months 
since, and we hav(3 received no tidings of the wanderer. My 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 895 

mother urged him to go to New Tork and remain till he heard 
the fate of Richard. She has written to him there, again and 
•gain, hut as yet has received no answer.** 

^And he went without one farewell look of her whom he 
deemed so vile, — so lost ? " said I, pressing Edith's hand against 
mj cold and sinking heart. 

^ No, Gahriella. His last act was to kneel hj yoar side, and 
pray God to forgive you both. Twice he went to the door, then 
coming back he bent over you as if he would clasp you in his 
arms ; then with a wild ejaculation he turned away. Never 
•aw I such anguish in the human countenance.** 

^ I have but one question more to ask,** said I, after a long 
pause, whose dreariness was that which follows the falling of 
the clods in the grave hollow. " How did Ernest know that 
Hichard was with me, when we left hinr alone in the library ? ** 

^ Dr. Hnrlowe accidentally alluded to your father's history 
before Richard, who, you recollect, was in foreign lands during 
the excitement it caused, and had never heard the circumstances. 
As soon as he heard the name of St. James, I saw him start, 
and turn to the doctor with a flushed and eager countenance* 
Then he drew him one side, and they conversed together some 
time ill a low undertone ; and Richard's face, red one moment 
and white the next, flashed with strange and shifting emotion^ 
At the time when your father's name obtained such unhappy 
notoriety, and yours through him, in the public papers, my 
another confided to Dr. Harlowe, who was greatly troubled oo 
your account, the particulars of your mother's life. She thought 
it due to your mother's memory, and his steady friendship. I 
know not how much he told Richard, whose manner evidently 
surprised him, but we all noticed that he was greatly agitated ; 
and then he abruptly took leave. He came immediately hero, 
and incjuired for you, asked where you were gone, and harried 
away ha if on an errand of life and death. Kmest, who was 
paf^sing along the winding giUlery, heard him, and followed.** 

Another dreary pause. Then I remembered Julian, and the 
love-light that had illumined them both that memorable even- 
ing. Edith had not once alluded to her own ckmded hopes. 



o 



00 ERNEST LINWOOD 



She seemed to have forgotten herself in her mothei's griee 

aiid mine. 

'' And Julian, my beloved Edith ? There is a future for y«. 
a happy one, is there not ? " 

" 1 do not expect happiness," she answered, with a sigb; 
" but Julians love will gild the gloom of sorrow, and be lie 
rainbow of my clouded days. He will return in the winier, 
and then perhaps he will not leave me again. I cannot qui: 
my mother; but he can take a son's place in her desolait^ 
homo. No garlands of roses will twine round my brid:d liouR. 
for ihcy are all withered, all but the rose of Sharon, GabrieUa. 
whose >acred bloom can never fade away. It is the only flow-r 
worth cherishing, — the only one without thorns, and wilhooi 
blight." 

Softly withdrawing her supporting arms, she suffered me to 
sink back on the pillow, gave me a reviving cordial, drew the 
curtains, and taking up a book, seemed absorbed in its contents 
I clo-ed my eyes and appeared to sleep, that she might rot 
sup[)ose her narration had banished repose. I luid anticipati-d 
all >1k^ uttered ; but the certainty of desolation is different to 
the agonies of suspense. I could have borne the separation 
fiom Ernest; but that he should believe me the false, guilty 
wretch I had seemed to be, inflicted pangs sharper than the 
vulture's beak or the arrow's barb. If he had left the counirv, 
as there was every reason to suppose he had, with this convic- 
tion, he never would return; and the loneliness and dreariness 
of a widowhood more sad than that which death creates, would 
settle down darkly and heavily on my young life. 

I (lid not blame him for the rash deed he had wrought, for it 
wa^ a mailman's act. When I recidled the circumstances, I did 
not won<ler at the frantic passion that dyed his hand in bloo«l: 
ami yet I could not blame myself. Had I shrunk from a broth- 
er's em])race, I should have been cither more or less than wo- 
man. 1 had yiel(l<.d to a divine impulse, and could appeal to 
nature and Heaven for justification. 

Ihit I had sinned. I had broken the canons of the living 
God, and deserved a fearful chastisement. I had made unto 




ERNEST LIN WOOD. 807 

■jself an idol, and no pagan idolater ever worshipped at Lis 
■nhallowed shrine with more blind devotion. I had been true 
to £mest, but false to my Maker, the one great undjealotis God. 
E bad lived but for one object, and that object was withdrawn, 
lieaTing all creation a blank. 

I stood upon the lonely strand, the cold waves beating against 
mj feet, and the bleak winds piercing through my unsheltered 
heart. I stretched out my arms to the wild waste of waters, in 
whose billows my life-boat was whelmed, and I called, but there 
wms none to answer. I cried for help, but none came. Then I 
looked up to heaven, and high above the darkness of the tem- 
pest and the gloom of the deep, one star shining in solitary 
l^rj arrested my despairing gaze. I had seen it before with the 
eje of faith, but never beaming with such holy lustre as now, 
when all other lights were withdrawn. 

" Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 
Dawn on m j darkness, and lend me thine aid. 
Star of tlie East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where the infant Kcdeemer is laid." 

Why, tender and pitying Saviour, do we wait for the night 
time of sorrow to fathom the depths of thy love and compassion ? 
Why must every fountain of earthly joy be dried up, before we 
bow to taste the waters of Kedron; and every blossom c£ love* 
be withered, before we follow thee to the garden of Gretli- 
Bcmane? 

84 



CHAPTER LI. 

Though the circumstance of discovering a brother in the 
lovtM' of my youth seems more like romance than reality, noib- 
Iiig could be more simple and natural tban the explanation of 
tlie my.stcry. His recollection did not go back to the period k- 
cordi'd in my mother's manuscript, when he was brought as a hv- 
ful hoir to the home in which my early infancy was shclterei 
His first remembrances were associated with a mother's sorrow 
and loneliness, — with an humble dwelling in one of the by-knes 
of the eity of New York, where she toiled with- her needle for 
tlieir daily bread. 

*• I remember," said Richard, " how I used to sit on a low 
stool at my mother^s feet, and watch her, as she wrouglit in 
muslin the most beautiful flowers and devices, with a skill and 
rapidity which seemed miraculous to me. Young aslwassl 
u<rd tu wonder that any one could look so sad, while producing 
such charming figures. Once, I recollect, the needle resisted 
licr elVorts to draw it through the muslin. She threw it from 
li< r, and taking another from the needle-case met with no better 
success. 

" ' Oh ! man Dieu ! ' she cried, dropping her work in her lap 
and cla-ping her Iiands, *my tears rust them.' 

***And why do you let so many fall, mother?' I asked. 
* AVJMTe do ihcy all come from ? ' 

*' * From a breaking heart,* she answered, and I never forgot 
her look< or her words. The breaking heart became an inuge 
in my mind, almost as distinct as. the rusted steeL For a long 
tinni I was afraid to jump or bound about the room, lest the 

<8W) 




ERNEST LIXWOOD. 899 

rmcture in mj mother's heart should be made wider, and more 
oars come gushing through. 

^But she did not always weep. She taught me to read, 
rliile she toiled with her needle, and she told me tales of the 
lenii and of fairy-land, at twilight hour, or as she used to say, 
tmire U hup et le chien^ in her own expressive, idiomatic 
inguagc. She told me, too, stories from the Bible, before I was 
ble to read them, of Isaac bound on the sacrificial pyre, with 
Is father kneeling by him, ready to plunge the knife in his 
iHing heart, when the angels called to him out of heaven to 
tey his uplided hand ; of Joseph's wondrous history, from his 
imU of many colors, fatal cause of fraternal jealousy, to the royal 
obes and golden chain with which Pharaoh invested him ; of 
lavid, the shepherd-boy, the minstrel monarch, the oooqueror 
f Philistia's giant chief. It was thus she employed the dim 
ours between the setting sun and the rising stars ; but the 
loment she lighted her lonely lamp she again plied her busy 
eedle, though alas ! too of\en rusted with her tears. 

" Thus my early childhood passed, — and evety day my heart 
srined more closely round my mother's heart, and I began to 
>rm great plans of future sfbhievements to be wrought for hen 

would be a second Joseph and go to some distant land and win 
imc, and honors, and wealth, and send for her that I might lay 
liem all at her feet She would not, at first, recognize her boy 
1 the puq)le and fine linen of his sumptuous attire ; but I 
rould full on her neck, and lifl up my voice and weep aloud, 
nd then she would know her child. A mother's tears, Gabriel- 
I, nurture great aspirations in a child. 

^ I used to accompany her to the shop when she carried home 
ler work. It was there she first met the gentleman whose 
ame I bear. Their acquaintance commenced through me, to 
rhom he seemed peculiarly attracted, and he won my admiring 
ratitudc by the gifts he lavished upon me. He came often to 
ee my mother, and though at first she shrunk from his visits, 
he gradually came to welcome him as a friend and a benefactor. 

" One evening, I think I was about eight or nine yean old, 
be took me in her arms, and told me, with many tean^ that Mr. 



100 ERXEST LINWOOD. 

Clvdo, the good and kind gcntlouKiii whom I loved so in.iclu 
had olVt^rod to be ii lather to me, and Avas going to take usl'.ci 
to a i>learjant home in the country, Avh«.'re 1 could run about ii 
the •rreen lields, and be tree as tlie birds of the air. SliHiclil 
me that perhaps my own father was living, but that he Ul 
left hir so long their union Wtos annulled by law, and tlia: rle 
had a right to marry another, and that she did so that I nii^l:; 
have a I'aiher and protector. She explained this simply. jO 
that I Mn<lLi>tood it all, and I understood too why she wi?hfi 
me to drop my own name and take that of her future husl-acJ. 
It wjis' associated with ^^o much sforrow and wrong, it was paia- 
ful to her ear, and !Mr. Clyde wished nie to adopt his own. lie 
w:is a good and honorable man, and I cherish his niemon' M^iih 
reverence and ^rraiitude. It' the fissure in inv mother's kait 
was not healed, it closed, and tears no longer drjp|)ed thruii^L 
*' Our country home was j)leasant and coiufoitable, and I rav- 
elled in thi; delights of natunt, with all the wild pa^^Ion of x 
bird h't loose IVom the imprisoning cage. I went to school, — I 
was in ilie world of action, — the energies of incipient in:in- 
hooil jiwuke and struggled in my bosom- We remained aboJi 
two yt^ars in tliis rural residence, situated in the western part 
ul' New York, when ]Mr. Clyde was called to attend a dyi:iz 
(iiilnr, who lived in this town, Gabriella, not very far fi"om iLe 
liftle cotta^ce in the woods where 1 first knew you. He to*>k 
jiiv niu!aer and mvself with him, for she was in feeble liealtlu 

a' «' 

jind h'; ilioii^'ht the joiu'nev would invigorate her. It did not. 
A iliill (»r snnnv France, slu: huijiuishcd undc-r the blojikiT 
N- V. l-^iijland >kies. She was never able to return; and Lo 
wlio eaMie to bury a lather, soon laid a beloved wife by tL-i 
.-idr <»{' tli(^ aired. Mv heart went down to the "rave with her, 
and it \\a< loiiir btfore its resurrection. My stejvfather was 
c«>inph't< ly crushed by tin; b!ov/, for he loved her as such a 
woman (lesrr\ed to l)e loved, and mourned as few luouni. Ho 
maaiiicd with Jiis a;r<d nmther in the old homestead, which she 
refused to I'^ave, and I was placed in the academy under llic 
chai-;re of ,Mi'. lie.uihis, where 1 lirst knew and loved you, my 
own >isl<'r, mv darhn*', N-loveil (iabriella." 



I 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 401 

If I had loved Richard before, how much more did I love him 
BOW, after hearing his simple and affecting history, so similar to 
mj own. As I had never loved him otherwise than as a brother, 
the revelation which had caused such a terrible revulsion in his 
leelings was a sacred sanction to mine. His nerves still vibrated 
fiom the shock, and he could not pronounce the word sister with- 
out a tremulousness of voice which betrayed internal agitation. 

He had but little more to relate. His step-&ther was dead, 
and as there was found to be a heavy mortgage on his estate, 
he was left with a moderate income, sufficient to give him an 
education and a start in life. His expenses in Europe had been 
defrayed by some liberal gentlemen, who still considered them- 
selves the guardians of his reputation and his fortunes* 

It was painful to me to tell the story of our fiuher^s crimeB, 
of which he had heard but a slight outline. When I described 
our interview in the Park, he knit his brows over his flftshing 
eyes, and his whole frame quivered with emotion. 

" My poor sister ! what a dreadful scene for you. What have 
you not suffered I but you shall never know another sorrow from 
which I can shield you, another wrong fix>m which I can de- 
fend." 

^ O Richard ! when I think of him in his lonely dungeon, 
alone with remorse and horror ; when I think of my mother^s 
dying injunctions, I feel as if I must go to him, and fulfil the 
holy mission she bade me perform. Read her manuscript ; you 
have a right to its contents, though they will rend your heart to 
|K.Tu.se th('m ; take it with you to your own room, when you go, 
fur I cannot look on and see you read words that have been 
driven like burning arrows through my soul." 

When I again met Richard, I could see in his bloodshot eyes 
what thoughts were bleeding within. 

** My mother left me the same awful legacy,** said he. ** She 
left her forgiveness, if he live<l ; oblivion of all her wrongs, if dead. 
Oh ! what bolt of vengeance is red enough for the wretch who 
could destroy the happiness of two such women as your mother 
and mine ! All-righteous Providence, may thy retributive fires — ** 

^Stop! stop!** I cried, throwing my arms loond him, and 

84» 



4( r2 1- U X E » T L I N W O O D • 

arrcistinii his fearful wortls, 'Mie is our fatlM?r, you mu^t not cnr« 
him. l>y our mothers' ushes, by their angels, now ji^rLa^ri 
hovonng over us, forbear, my brother, forbear." 

*MJud help me/' he exclaimed, liis lips turning to an ashi 
jKibrH'Ss, '*! did not know what 1 wa«5 nl>out to say; butL^it &< 
eiiouiih to drive one mad, to think of the fountain of one's lift 
liL'in.ir i)nlluted, jKiisoned, and accursed? " 

"()n«* di*oi> of the Saviours blood can cleanse and make it 
i)nre, my brother, if he were only led to the foot of the ciws" 

liichard's countenance changed ; a crimson flush swept ovtr 
his face, and then h^ft it colorless. 

** My hand is not worthy to lead him there," he cried, " nod 
if it were, I fear thei*e is no mercy for so hardened, so invetL-r- 



ate a transgn-ssor. 



»» 



*• There is. Kichard, there is. Let the expiring thief bear 
wiincss to a Saviour's illimitable love. Oh ! it is sinful to set 
bound-; to (iod's innneasurable mercy. Let us go together, my 
hrotlier. j\ly mother's dresim may yet be realized. Wlio 
knows but our weak, liHal hands, may litl our unhappy father 
i'nmi tlie black abyss of sin and impenitence, Almiglity Oi-J 
n>-.-i>ting us? If heavenly blessings are promised to him who 
liiiiis a stuil from the error of his ways, think, Kichard. Iiow 
diviiM* tlie joy, if it be an erring parent's soul, thus reclaimed and 
I)j<)ii;j:]it home to (lod ? Let us go, as soon as we have strcn^li 
(«» c«Mnmenc(^ the journey. I cainiot remain here, where every 
tliiuLT reminds me of my blighted hopes and ruined happiness. 
It -(Mills so like a grave, Kichard." 

*• I wonder you do not hate. I wonder you do not curse 
riK'," exclaimed he, with su<lden vehemence, " for it is my rarh- 
in'-> that ha-; wrou;;ht this desolation. Dearly have you piir- 
clia.MMl a nin-t unworthy brother. Would I had never clairo'-d 
yon, (Jal)ri<lla; never rolled down such a diirk cloud on your 
heart and hoFiic." 

" Say not so, my beloved brother. The cloud was on my 
heart alna<ly, and you have scarcely made it darker or more 
cliillin;r. I feel as if I had heen living amid the thunderstornu 
of troj.ic rejiioiiN, wliere even in sunsliine electric tires are 




ERNEST LINWOOD* 408 

flashing. Before this shock came, my soul was sick and weary 
of the conflicts of wild and warring passions. Oh ! jou know 
not how often I have sighed for a brother's heart to lean upon, 
eren when wedded joys were brightest, — how much more 
must I prize the blessing now ! Surely never brother and sister 
Iiad more to bind them to each other, than you and I, Richard. 
Suffering and sorrow, life's holiest sacraments, have hallowed 
and strengthened the ties of nature." 

It was not long before we were able to ride abroad with Mrs. 
Linwood and Edith, and it was astonishing how rapidly we ad- 
vanced in restoration to health. I could perceive that we were 
objects of intense interest and curiosity, from the keen and 
eager glances that greeted us on every side ; for the fearful 
tragedy of which I had been the heroine, had cast a shadow 
over the town and its surroundings. Its rumor had swept be- 
yond the blue hilLs and Grandison Place was looked upon as 
the theatre of a dark and bloody drama. This was all naturaL 
Seldom is the history of e very-day life marked by events as 
romantic and thrilling as those compressed in my brief experi- 
ence of cigliteen years. And of all the deep, vehement pas- 
sions, whose exhibition excites the popular mind, there is none 
that takes sucli strong hold as jealousy, the terrible hydra of 
die human heart. 

I believe I was generally beloved, and that a deep feeling of 
sympathy for my misfortunes pervaded the community, for I 
had never been elated by i>rosperity ; but Ernest, whose exclu- 
siveness and reserve was deemed haughtiness, was far from be- 
ing popular. Mrs. Linwood was revered by all, and blessed as 
the benefuctresH of the poor and the comforter of the afflicted ; 
but she was lifted by fortune above the social level of the com- 
munity, and few, very few were on terms of intimacy with the in- 
matos of the Granite Castle, as Grandison Place was oflenwcallcd. 
Its nmssy stone walls, its turreted roof, sweeping lawn, and ele- 
vated (position, seemed emblematic of the aristocracy of its 
owners ; and though the blessings of the lower classes, and the 
respect and reverence of the higher, rested upon it, there was a 
mediocral one, such as is found in every community, that looked 



404 ERKEBT LINWOOD. 

wiih envy on those, whose characters they could not apprecuis, 
because they were litled so high above their own leveL 

I have spoken of Dr. Ilarlowe and j\Ir. Regulus as the mast 
valued friends of the family ; but there was one whom it wooH 
be ungrateful in me to omit, and whose pure and sacred trac 
came forth in the dark hours through which I liad just poaied, 
like those worlds of light which are never seen by day, I allude 
to Mr. Somcrville, the pastor of the parish, and who migiit 
truly be called a man of God. The aged minister, who had pre- 
sided over the church during my mother's life, had been gathered 
to liis fathers, and his name was treasured, a golden sheaf, in the 
garner of memory. The successor, who had to walk in the 
holy footprints he Imd lefl in the valley, was obliged to take 
heed to his steps and to shake the dust of earth from liis san- 
dals i\s he went along. In our day of sunshine he had ^tood 
somewhat aloof, for he felt his mission was to the poor and 
lowly, to tlie sons and daughters of want and affliction ; but as 
soon as sickness and sorrow darkened the household, he came 
with li])S distilling balm, and hands ready to pour oil on the 
bruised and wounded heart. 

]\h'tliinks I see him now, as when he knelt by my bedside, 
after 1 aroused from my long and deadly trance. No outward 
^naccs adorned his person, but the beauty of holiness was on 
his l>row, ainl its low, sweet music in his somewhat feeble ao 
cents. It seemed to me as if an angel were pleading for me, 
and my soul, emerging as it were from the cold waves of obliv- 
ion, tlirilleil with new-boni life. Had my spirit been nearer to 
(ioil (luring its unconscious wanderings, and brouglit back with 
it impressions of celestial glory never conceived before? I 
know not ; l)ut I know that a change had |)assed over it, and 
that I feh the reality of that eternity, which had seemed before 
a grand and ever-receding sliadow. 

Every day, during Kichanl's illness and mine, came our good 
and l)eloved pastor, and he always left a track of light behind 
him. 1 always i'elt nearer heaven wlien he departed than when 
he came, for its kingdom was within him. 



E H N !■: s r 1. 1 N w o O u . 4^15 

To liini 1 I'ontiJcd mj wish to accompany tny brother on his 
filial mission, and be wannly approved iL 

, " As eurel; as I believe the Lord has put it into yoar heart 
\p* go," said he, " do I believe that a blessing will follow joa.' 
^ Urs. Lmwood was more tardj in her sanction. 
_j " My dear child," 6he siiid, iouking ni mo with tlio tenderoal 
compassion, "you do not know what 'n before yuiu What 
•jjrillyoadoin tliatgn^at cily without lemale friendship and sym* 
.pathy? You and Richard, both so young and inexperienced 
ia the ways of the world. I will not, however, put any obitla- 
.{de in his path, for man may go unshrinking where woman may 
not tread. But you^ my Gnbriella, must remain wiUi mo." 

" Here, where the jihanlom of Ernest liaunts my every Bt«p, 
, where the echo of his voice i^ heard in every galr^ and the 
rkhadow of departed joy comes between mo and the Bunehino of 
.tteaven ? What can I do here but remind you by my presence 
.ci him, whom I have banished for ever from your arms ? Let 
.0» go, my own dear mother, for I cannot remain passive here 
J shall not want femttlc sj-mpatby and guardianship, fm- Mrs. 
Bnthan is all that is kind and lende;r, and know^ enough of my 
sad history to be entiil^,! lo unbounded confldence. I will wrile 
to her, and be guided by her, oa if eUq were another Mrv. Lin- 
wood." 

She yielded at last, and so did Dr. Ilorlowe, who ch(W^^d mc 
by hid cordial approval. He said it was the best thing I could 
do for myself; for change of scene, and a strung motive of u> 
tion, might ^ve me from bei.'oniing a confinn<?d invalid. Edllh 
wept, but made no 0}>posiliuu. She believed 1 was in the path 
of duty, and that it would be made smooth beneath my feet. 

Ko tidings from Ernest came lo interrupt the dreary blank of 
his absence, — the snme continuity of anxiety and unccrtiunty 
stretching on into a hopclr^ii futurity. Again and again I said 
lo myself — 

"Uetter so a thousand times, than lo live as I have donc,iicallu4 
by the lightning of jialou^y. Kvcn if ho returned, 1 oould not, 
with the fear of God now before mr, renew our tmblcal wedlock. 



> 



406 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

The hand of violence has sundered us, and my heart fibres mot 
ever bleed from the wrench, but thej will not again iniwiDei 
He has torn himself ruthlessly from me ; and the shattered 
vine, rent from its stay, is beginning to cling to the pillars of 
God*s temple. It is for him I praj, for /u'm I mouni, raihfl 
than myself. It is for his happiness, ratlier than my own josd- 
ficiition, that I desire him to know the history of my iDDoceDC& 
I am willing to drink the cup of humiliation even to the dregs, if 
it may not pass from me ; but spare him, O Heavenly FaihOi 
the bitter, bitter chalice." 

It was a bleak morning in early winter, that we commeDoed 
our journey to that city, where little more than a year ago I 
had gone a young and happy bride. As we rode along the 
winding avenue, I looked out on the dry russet lawn, the ma- 
jestic skeleton of the great elm, stripped of the foliage and 
hues of life, and saw the naked branches of the oaks clinging 
to each other in sad fraternity, and heard the wind wbL^ling 
through them as through the shrouds of a vesseL With an in- 
voluntary shiver I drew nearer to Richard, and hid my face 
from the prophetic desolation of nature. 




CHAPTER LII. 

Ok our arrival in New York, we stopped at the hotel 

till private lodgings could be obtained. We both wished to be as 
retired as possible from public observation, and for this purpose 
X remained in mj room, where Richard, as mj brother, had the 
privilege of visiting me. I was anxious he should go immedn 
ately to Mr. Brahan's ; for, added to my desire to be under the 
influence of her feminine regard, I cherished a faint hope that 
through him I might learn something of Ernest's mysterious 
exile. 

They both returned with Richard; and while Mr. Brahan 
remained with him below, she came to my chamber, and weL* 
corned me with a warmth and tenderness that melted, while it 
cheered. 

^ You must not stay here one hour longer," said she, pressing 
one hand in hers, while she laid the other caressingly on my 
short, curling hair. ^ You must go with me, and feel as much 
at home as with your own Mrs. Linwood. I pass a great many 
lonely hours, while my husband is absent engaged in business ; 
and it will be a personal favor to me« Indeed, you must not 
refuse." 

I said something about leaving my brother, while I expressed 
my gratitude for her kindness. 

^ Mr. Brahan will arrange that," she said ; ^you may be as- 
sured he shall be cared for. You have not unpacked your 
trunk ; and here is your bonnet and mantilla ready to be re- 
sumed. You did not think I would suffer you to remain among 
strangers, when my heart has been yearning to meet you fiir 
weary months ? ** 



4U^5 E II N K S T L I N W O O D . 

'NVith gi-ntle earnt-.stiu'ss she overcame all my scruple*; v>\ 
it \va> but a lilllc time before 1 luuiul myseU* oslablisbi-il a? i 
«Mn>t ill the house where 1 tirst beheld the li^ht ot* oxi^uai.t. 
How stran^'e it sticmed, that the children of the two beinvrji 
and injure<l beings who had been made exiles from tluit roci 
^h(Uild be received beneath its shelter after the lapse of » 
many yeai*s ! 

]Mrs. l>rahau accompanied me to the chamber prcpardi far 
my nfcijitinn ; and had 1 been her own daughter she could not 
have lavished ujion me more affectionate cares. The picture 
of mv mother, which I had returned when we left the citv. was 
lian^iin;; on the wall ; and the eyes and li[>s of heavenly ?weet- 
noss ^eemed to welcome her sad descemlant to the home of kr 
inlancy. As I stood gazing upon it with mingled grief and 
a'loration, 3Irs. lh*ahan encircled me with her arm, and told me 
slie understood now the history of that picture, and the mystirj 
of its wonderful resemblance to me. I had not seen her *iiice 
til" notorii*ty my name had ac(piired, in consequence of the dia- 
monds and my father's arrest; and she knew me now as the 
danirhtcr of that unhappy man. Did she know the circumstan- 
(T-; of tlie discovery of my brother, and my husband*s liij;:bi? 
1 (lariMl not ask ; but I read so much sympathy and compassion 
in Ihp conntrnance, and so much tenderness in her manners, I 
tlioii'jht >\w had iathomed the depth of my sorrows. 

*• Vuu li»ok like a girl of fifteen," she said, passing her fingen 
tliiouL'h my carele.-sly waving locks. " Your Lair was very 
b( antiful, but 1 can scarcely regret its loss." 

"1 may look more juvenile, — I believe I do, for everyone 
t«'lN me so ; but the youth and bloom of my heart are gone for 



CMT." 



*» For ever from the lips of the young, and from those more 
advanced in life, mean very different things," answered "Mrs* 
IJiahan. ** 1 have no doubt you have happier hours in store, 
and you will look back to these as morning shadows melting 
oif in the bri^'litening sunshine." 

** Do you know all that has Lappened, dear Mrs. Braha% 
since I left your city ? " 




EUNK3T LINWOOD. 4^9 

" Tlic rumor ot the distressing drcnmstances which attended 
the discovery of your brother reached us even here, ood our 
hearts blcJ for yoa. But all nill jet be well. The terrible 
•bock you have sustained will be a death blow to the passion 
that has caused you so much misery. Forgive me, if I make 
painful alluiiions ; but I cannot suffer you to sink into the gloom 
of despondmicy." 

" I try to look upward. I do think the hopes which have no 
home on earth, have found rest in heaven." 

" But why, my dear young friend, do yon close jonr heart to 
earthly hope ? Surely, when your husband retnmsf you may 
anticijiatc a joyful reunion." 

"When he returns! Alas! his will be a life-long exile. 
Believing what ho does, he will never, never return." 

" But you liave wriilcn and explained every thing ? " 

" How can I write, — when I know not where to direct, when 
I know not to what region he has wandered, or what resting* 
place lie has found?" 

" Itut Mr. Ihkrl.ind I " said she, with a look of troubled sar> 
prise. " You might learn through him ?" 

" Mr». Liuwood lias wTitlen repeatedly to Mr. Ilarland, and 
received no answer. She concluded that he had left the city, 
but knew not how to ascertain his address." 

"I'lien you did not know tliat he had gone to India? I 
thou;^ht, — 1 believed, — iait possible that yon are not aware'* — 

" Of what ? " I exclaimed, catching hold of her arm, for mj 
brain rech^d .tml my sight darkened. 

"'iliut Mr. LinwMMhiccom[>anii.'d him," she onnwcrcd, turning 
jmle at the agitutlun her words excited. To India! tliat distant, 
deiuUy * To India, without one rarcwcll, one parting 

loki-u hum he lefl apparently on the brink of the 

gra^■l■ ! 

By nible anguish of (hat moment, I knew the de- 

lusion veiled my motives. I hod thought it was only 

to rec t parent that I Irad come, but I found it was the 

hope gtho deluded wanderer, more. than filial piety, 

that I my departure, 

35 



410 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

" To India ! " I cried, and my spirit felt the tossings of ^^ 
wild billows that lay rolling between. ** Then we arc ialeti 
partt.'d, — parted for ever ! " 

''Why, t'is but a step from ocean to ocean, from clime ic 
clime," ^bc said in kind, assuring accents. '* Men think nodiit; 
of such a voyage, for science has furnished wings which btir 
tlicni over sj>ace with tlie s[>ced of an eagle. If you knew na 
his destination, I should think you would rejoice rather tlum 
mourn, to be relieved of the torture of sus])ense. Had I knoini 
that yuu were ignorant of the fact, I should liave written months 
airo/' 

" Is it certain that he is gone ? " I asked. " Did you sec him? 
I)i«l ^Ir. Bndian? How did you learn, what we have vainly 
S()ii;_4it to know ? " 

'• Mr. IJralian had business with Mr. Ilarland, and haring 
nopjlecied some imiwrtant items, followed him on baird the rhip 
in which he embarked. It was at night, and he remained but i 
short time ; but he caught a glimpse of your husband, whom ho 
innncdiately recognized, but who gave him no op])ortunitj << 
spcakin;: to him. Knowing he was a friend of. jMr- Ilarland's, 
lie supposed he liad come on boiird to bid him farewell, though 
h<' was not aware of liis being in the city. When we heard the 
minor of the tragic scenes in which he acted so dre:ul a paTM 
and ronnected it with the lime of Mr. Ilarland's depart un\ Mr. 
Urahan recalled Mr. Linwood*s unexpected appearance in the 
fillip, and the mystery was exphiined. But we dreamed not thai 
lii< departure was unknown to you. J£ you had only written 
to us . 

It was strange that I had never thought of the possibility of 
tln'ir knowin^j^ any thing connected with Ernest. Mr. ILu'lacd 
wa-i the onlv <:entleman with whom he was on terms of intimao*. 
tin* (»rdy one to whom we thought of applying in the cxtremitj 
ol'anxictv. 

"lias the slii[) been heard from ? What was its name? "I 
a>kcd, unconscious of the folly of my first (question. 

*• Not yet. It was called the * Star of the East.' A beautiful 
and hope-inspiring name. Mr. Brahan can give you 3Ir. Har- 



EBNEST LIKWOOD. 411 

hnd's address. Too can write to jonr husband throngh him. 
ETeiy thing is as clear as nooodaj. Do yoa not akeady in- 
hale the fragrance of the opening flowers of joy ? " 

I tried to smile, but I fear it was a woful attempt. Even the 
■cent of Hie rwes bad been crushed out of my heart 

" Your brother is on exceedingly interesting yonng man," she 
observed, perceiving tliat I could not speak without painTol 
agitation of Ernest" I have never seen a stranger who won 
mj regard so instantaneously." 

" Dear Richard ! " I cried, " he is all that he leenu, and &r 
more. The noblest, kindest, and best. How sad that such a 
cloud darkens his young manhood ! " 

" It will serve as a background to his filial virtnes and bring 
them out in briglit and beautiful relief. I admire, I honor him 
a thousand limes more lluin if he were the heir of an unspotted 
name, a glorious ancestry. A father's crimes cannot reflect 
ahamc on a son so pure nnd upright. Besides, be bears another 
name, and the work! knows not bis clouded Uneage." 

My heart wanned at her generous pnuses of Richard, who 
was every day more and more endeared to my afiections. 
Where was he now ? Had he commenced his mission, and 
gone to the gloomy ccU where his father was imprisoned? He 
did not wifJi me to accompany him the first time. What a 
meeting it must be ! Ho had never consciously bclicld his 
father. The fnlher had no knowledge of his deseHed son. 
In the dungeon's gloom, tlie living grave of hope, joy, and 
fame, the recognition would take place. With what feelings 
would ilie poor, blasted criminal behold the noble boy, on whom 
he had never bestowed one parental care, coming like an angel, 
if not to unbar tiL) prison doors, to unlock for him the golden 
galea of heaven ! 

I was too weary for my jonmey, too much exbaosted from 
agitation to wait for Richard's return, but I could not lay my 
head on tho pillow before writing to Mrj. Linwood and Edith, 
and telling them the tidings I had learned of the beloTed exile. 
And now the first stormy emotions iiad mhsided, gratitude, 
deep and holy gratitude, triumphed over every other feeling. 



412 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Far, far away as he was, he was with a friend ; he was in il 
liuniiin probability safe, and he could Icam in time how dee^iy 
\ir had wronged me. 

( )rt<*ii, on bended knees, with weeping eyes and rending sigU 
luul 1 breathed tliis prayer, — **Only let him know that 1 aiL 
.still worthy of his love, and I am willinj^ to resign it, — letDe 
be jiistilied in hid sight, and I am wLlliug to devote my futme 
hi;' to T/iec" 

riie ])ath was opening, the way clearing, and my faith and 
n>ignation about to be proved. I recognized the divine a> 
rang(.inent of Providence in the apparently accidental circum- 
sijinees of my life, and my soul vindicated the justice as wellu 
adored the mercy of the Most High. 

A voi(!e seemed whimpering in my ear, "O thou afflicted 
and tossed with tempests! there is a haven where thy weaiy 
bark shall lind rest. I, who once bore the burden of life, 
know iu sorrows and temptations, its wormwood and its galL I 
bore the infirmities of man, that I might pity and forgive; I 
bore the erown of thonis, that thou mightest wear the roses of 
l*ara<lise; I drained the dregs of human agony, that tboa 
ini.rhte^t drink the wine of immortality. Is not my love pass- 
iiiL,^ the love of man, and worth the sacrifice of earth's flcciing 
joys." 

As i\\v Iieavenly accents seemed to die away, like a strain of 
hweet, low harmony, came murmuring the holy refrain — 

" Star of the E:ist, the horizon adoming, 
Guidu where the infant Kcdccmcr is laid." 




CHAPTER LIII. 

Richard had visited the Tombs, but had not seen his &ther. 
The sight, the air, the ponderous gloom of the awful prison- 
house, was as much as he had fortitude to bear ; and though he 
bad at first thought preferred meeting him in the shadows of 
night, he recoiled from its additional horrors. 

Poor fellow ! I felt heart-sick for him. On one side the mem- 
017 of his mother's wrongs, — on the other, his father's suffer- 
ings and di;$gracc. I knew by my own bitter experience the 
coDllict he was enduring. 

^ After we have once met,** he said, ^ the bitterest pang will 
be over." 

When he returned, I was shocked at the suffering his coun- 
tenance expressed. I sat down by him in silence, and took his 
band in mine, for I saw that hb heart was fulL 

^ I cannot take you Oiere^ Gabriella," were the first words he 
uttered. '^ If my nerves are all unstrung, how will yours sus- 
tain the shock ? He told me not to bring you, that your pres- 
ence would only aggravate his sufferings." 

^ Did I not come to share your duties, Richard ? and will it 
not be easier to go hand in band, though we do tread a thorny 
path ? I have heard of women who devote their whole lives to 
visiting the dungeons of the doomed, and pouring oil and 
balm into the wounds of penitence and remorse ; women who 
know nothing of the prisoner, but that he is a sinful and suffer- 
ing son of Adam, — angeb of compassion, following with lowly 
hearts the footsteps of their divine Master. O my brotheri 
think me not so weak and selfish. I will convince you that I 
have fortitude, though you believe it not l>t. Uarlowe thinks 

S5» (*M) 



411 E R N E S T L I N W O O D . 

1 li:ive a j^roat deal. But, Richard, is it too painful to speak of 
ihr iiilrrview you so much drcadud? Does he look mo?e 
wrctehc'd than you Ibared?" 

*• Look, (iabriella ! Oh, he is a wreck, a melancholy wreck ot' 
a onc(.' noble man. Worn, haggard, gloomy, and de^]>airiiig, k 
is the very pLTSonification of a sin-blasted being, a lo?t, mined 
spirit. 1 had prepared myself for something mouniful and 
d«.r^raded, ]>ut not for such a sight as this. O what an awtul 
thing it is to give oneself up to the dominion of evil, till one 
seem- to live, and move, and have their being in it ! How awful 
ti) be consumed by slow, baleful fires, till nothing but smouidtr- 
in«j: a>lM.'S and smoking cinders are left ! My God! Gabriella,! 
never realized before what accurscc/ meant." 

lie started up, and walked up and down the room, just as Er- 
ncrt used to do, unable to control the vehemence of his eini)- 
tion?. 

•* Father ! " he exclaimed, " how I could have loved, revered 
a lorod my father, had he been what my youthful heart has so 
panted to embrace. I loved my mother, — Heaven knows I 
dill ; but there always seemed majesty as well as beauty in the 
name of father, and I longed to reverence, as well as to love. 
?dr. Clyde was a ^ood man, and I honored him ; he was mv 
1 iiR'j'actor, and I was grateful to him, — but he wanted the in- 
trllci'tual grandeur, to which my soul longed to pay homage. I 
was always forming an image in my own mind of what a father 
.-!:< )iil(l be, — ])ure, upright, and commanding, — a being to whom 
I could look up as to an earthly divinity, who could sausfy the 
^^aIlt^ of my venerating nature." 

"It is thus I have done,'* I cried, struck by the peculiar sym- 
l)a{liy of our feelings. "In the dreams of my childhood, a 
\aLni<?, but gU)rious form reigned with the sovereignty of a king 
and the sanctity of a iiigh-priest, and imagination offered daily 
iaeeiise at its throne. Never, till I read my mother's hi?toQ', 
was the illusicju dispelled. But how did he welcome yon, 
ivicliard? Surely he was glad and proud to find a son in 
you." 

*' lie is no h)nger capable of pride or joy. He is burnt ont, 




EBNE8T LINWOOD. 415 

as it were. But he did at last show some emotioiiy when made 
to believe that I was the son of Theresa. His hand trembled, 
and his hard, sunken eje momentarily soflened. ^ Did jou 
come here to mock and upbraid me ? " he cried, concealing his 
■ensibilitj under a kind of fierce sullenness. ^What wrong 
have I done you ? I deserted you, it is true, but I saved yoa 
from the influence of my accursed example, which might have 
dragged you to the burning jaws of helL Go^ and leave me to 
my doom. Leave me in the living grave my own unhallowed 
hands have dug. I want no sympathy, no companionship, — - 
and least of all, yours. Every time I look on you, I feel as if 
coals of fire were eating in my heart." 

^ Rcmor^o, Richard," I exclaimed, ^ remorse I Oh I he feels. 
Our ministrations will not be in vain. Did you tell him that I 
was with you, that I came to comfort and to do him good? ** 

*' I (lid ; but he bade me tell you, that if he wanted comfort, 
it could not come through you, — that he would far rather his 
tortures were increased than diminished, that he might, he said, 
become inured to suiFerings, which would continue as long as 
Ahnigiity vengeance could infiict and immortality endure. 
My dear sister, I ought not to repeat such things, but the words 
ring in my ears like a funenil knell." 

^* Let us not speak of him any more at present," he added, 
reseating himself at my side, and he took my hand and pressed 
it on his throbbing temples. " There is sweetness in a sister^s 
sympathy, l>alm in her gentle touch." 

Mrs. I^ralian, who had considerately left us alone, soon en- 
tered, saying it was luncheon time, and that a glass of wine 
would do us all good. JSIr. Brahon followed her, whose intelli- 
gent and animated conversation drew our minds from the sub- 
jects tliat engrossed our thoughts. It was well for me that I 
had an opi)ortunity of becoming so intimately acquainted with 
a married pair like Mr. and Mrs. Brohan. It convinced me 
tliat the most perfect confidence was compatible with the fondest 
love, and that the purest happiness earth is capable of importp 
ing, is found iu the union of two constant, trusting hearts. 

" We have been married seventeen years," said Mrs. Bra- 



416 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

ban, in a glow of grateful affection, " and I have never seen % 
cloud of distrust on my husband's brow. We have had carea.— 
as who has not, — but they have only made us more dear to eaA 
other, by calling forth mutual tenderness and sympathy. Gun 
was not one of those romantic attachments which partake of the 
wildncss of insanity, but a serene, steady flame, that bams 
brighter and brighter as life rolls on.** 

She spoke out of the abundance of her heart, without mean- 
ing to contrast her own bright lot with mine, but I could not 
help envying her this unclouded sunshine of love. I tried to 
rejoice with her, without sighing for my own darker destiny ; 
but there is an alloy of selfishness in the purest gold of oar 
natures. At least, there is in mine. 

There was another happy pair, — Mr. Regulus and bis wild 
!Madge. A letter from her, forwarded by Mrs. Lin wood sooo 
after our arrival in New York, breathed, in her own character- 
istic language, the most perfect felicity, mingled with heanfelt 
sympathy and aifection. Their bridal hours were saddened by 
my misfortunes ; and they were compelled to leave me when I 
was unconscious of their departure. Margaret was delighted 
with every thing around and about her, — the place, the people, 
and most of all her husband; though, in imitation of the 
Swedish wife, she called him her bear, her bofialo, and masta- 
don. The exuberant energies of her character, that had been 
rioting in all their native wildncss, had now a noble framework 
to grasp round, and would in time form a beautiful domestic 
bower, beneath whose shade all household joys and graces 
would bloom and muhiply. 

I have anticipated the reception of this letter, but I feared I 
might forgi.'t to mention it. It is delightful to see a fine charac- 
ter gradually wrought out of seemingly rough and unpromising 
elements. It is beautiful to witness the triumph of pure, dis- 
interested ailection in the heart of woman. It is sweet to know 
that the angel of weddtjd love scatters tliomless flowers in some 
happy homes, — that there are some thresholds not sprinkled 
by blood, but guarded by confidence, which the destroying demon 
of the household is not permitted to pass over. 



1 

I 




EBNB8T LINWOOD. 417 

I do not like to tarn back to myself, lest they who follow me 
should find the path too shadowy and thorny. But ia it not 
siud that they who go forth weeping, bearing precious seed, 
shall come again rejoicing, bending under the weight of golden 
sheaves ? 

I wrote to Ernest for the first time, for we had never been 
parted before. Again and again I commenced, and threw down 
the pen in despair. My heart seemed locked, closed as with 
Bastile bars. What words of mine could pierce through the 
cloud of infamy in which his remembrance wrapped me ? He 
would not believe my strange, improbable tale. He would cast 
it from him as a device of the evil spirit, and brand me with a 
deeper curse. No ! if he was so willing to cast me off, to leaTe 
me so coldly and cruelly, without one farewell line, one wish to 
know whether I were living or dead, let him be. Why should 
I intrude my vindication on him, when he cared not to hear it? 
He had no right to believe me guilty. Had a winged spirit 
from another sphere come and told me that he was false, I would 
have spumed the accusation, and clung to him more closely and 
more confidingly. 

^ But you knew his infirmity," whispered accusing conscience, 
^ even before you loved him ; and have you not seen him writh- 
ing at your feet in agonies of remorse, for the indulgence of 
passions more torturing to himself than to you I It is you who 
have driven him from country and home, innocently, it is true, 
but he is not less a wanderer and an exile. Write anid tell 
him tiie simple, holy truth, then folding your hands meekly over 
your heart, leave the result to the disposal of the Grod of futu- 
rity." 

Then words came like water rushing through breaking ice. 
Tliey came without effort or volition, and I knew not what they 
were till I saw them looking at me from the paper, like my 
own image reflected in a glass. Had I been writing a page for 
the book of God's remembrance, it could not have been more 
nakedly true. I do believe there is inspiration now given to 
the spirit in the extremity of its need, and that we often speak 
and write as if moved by the Holy Ghost, and language comes 



418 ERNEST LIl^WOOD. 

to US in a Pentecostal shower, burning with heaven's fire, aai 
tongues of flame arc put in our mouth, and our spirits idotc u 
with the wings of a mighty wind. 

I recollect the closing sentence of the letter. I knew it c* 
tanied my fate ; and yet I felt that I bad not the power to 
change it. 

" Come back to your country, your mother, and Edith. I d) 
not bid you come back to me, for it seems that the distance thas 
separates us is too immeasurable to be overcome. I remembtr 
tolling you, when the midnight moon was shining upon as ia 
the solitude of our chamber, that I saw as in a vision a friglit- 
ful abyss opening between us, and I stood on one icy brink and 
you on the other, and I saw you receding farther and further 
from me, and my arms vainly sought to reach over the cold 
chasm, and my own voice came back to me in mournful edioes 
Tliat vision is realized. Our hearts can never again meet till 
that gulf is closed, and confidence firm as a rock makes a bri^ 
for our souls. 

^^ I have loved you as man never should be loved, and tint 
love can never pass away. But from the deathlike trance in 
wliicli you left me, my spirit has risen with holier views of life 
and its duties. An union, so desolated by storms of passion is 
ours has been, must be sinful and unhallowed in the sight of 
(iod. It has been severed by the hand of violence, and never, 
with my consent, will be renewed, unless we can make a new 
covenant, to which the bow of heaven's peace shall be an ever- 
lasting sign ; till passion shall be exalted by esteem, love sus- 
tained by confidence, and religion pure and undefiled be the 
sovereign principle of our lives." 




CHAPTEE LIV. 

The Tombs I -» shall I ever forget 1117 first visit to that dia- 
mal abode of crime, woe, and despair ? — never I 

I had nerved m jself for the trial, and went with the sprit 
of a martjr, though with blanched cheek and fidtering step, 
into the heart of that frowning pile, on which I could never 
gaze without shuddering. 

Clinging to the arm of Richard, I felt myself borne along 
through cold and dreary waUs, that seemed to my startled ear 
echoing with sighs and groans and curses, upward through 
dark galleries, and passed ponderous iron doors that reminded 
me of Milton's description of the gates of hell, till the prison 
officer who preceded us paused before one of those grim por- 
tals, and inserting a massy key, a heavy gyrating sound scraped 
and lacerated my ear. 

^ Wait on^ moment," I gasped, leaning almost poweriess on 
the shoulder of Richard. 

^ I feared so," said he, passing his arm around me, his eyes 
expressing the most intense sensibility. ^ I knew you could not 
bear it. Let us return, — I was wrong to permit your coming 
in tlie fir^t place." 

^No, no, — I am able to go in now,— the shock is over, — I 
am quite strong now." 

And raising my head, I drew a quick, painful breath, passed 
through the iron door into the narrow cell, where the f^m of 
eternal twilight darkly hung. 

At first I could not distinguish the objects within, for a mist 

was over my sight, which deepened the shadows of the dungeon 

walls. But as my eye became aocnstomed fo the dimneiSi I 

(ii9) 



420 ERNEST LIXWOOD. 

f-aw a tall, emaciated figure rising from the bed, which ncarij 
iill«'d tlit^ liuiiied t^pacc which inclosed us. A namjw ajK-mut 
ill the deep, miv<sy stone, admitted all the light which iliuminrt 
us at't«.T the iron door slowly closed. 

Tlio dark, sunken eyes of the prisoner gleamed like ik 
ila-h of an expiring taper, wild and fitful, on our entering 
foiins. lie was dreadfully altered, — I should scarcely have 
rccoLrnized him through the gloomy shade of his long-neglvcted 
hair, and thick, unslioni beard. 

" Father," said Kichard, trying to speak in a cheerful tone. 
'' I have l)rought you a comforter. A daughter's pre-imce 
niii<l he more soothing than a son's." 

1 ]i(;ld out my hand as Richard spoke, and he took it as if it 
w»re marble. No tenderness softened his countenance, — be 
raih'-r scinied to recoil from me than to welcome. I notict-da 
frrcat dilllrcnce in his reception of Uichard. lie gra.*iK?d hi? 
ha ml, and perused his features as if he could not withdraw Lis 

" Aro you indeed my son? "he asked, in an unsteady lone. 
** Do }<.)u uot mock me ? Tell mc once more, are you There-a » 
cliiUl?" 

'• As surelv as I believe her an ansjcl in heaven. I am." 

*' Vc-, — yes, you have her brow and smile; but why have 
y(»ii come to me again, wlien I commanded you to stay away? 
And wliy have you hrought this pale girl here, >vlien she loathes 
ni<' as an iiicarnati.' liend?" 

"No, — no," 1 exclaimed, sinking down on the foot of the 
l)t .1, ill ho])el('ssness of spirit, "I pity, forgive, pi"ay for yuu, 
^\<•^■|) lor you.'' 

" I want neither ]>ity, forgiveness, nor prayers," he sullouly 
:ki wt-nd. *' I want n(<ihin^ but Ireedom, and that von cannot 
;.'I\e. do hack to your hu-baiul, and tell him I curse liim for 
I lie riches that tempted nie, and you for the jewels that betrayed. 
Yini niiLrlii have LM\cn nie gold in-tead of diamond:«, and then I 
would liave he.n sale i'roni the liell-hounds of law% Curse on 
the sonlid fear " — 

'^ Stoj)," cried Kichard, seizing the arm he had raised in im- 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 4S1 

scation, and fixing on him an eye of stern command. ^ You 
ill not wound licr ears with such foul blasphemy. Utter 
other word of reproach to her, and I will leave you for ever 
the doom you merit. Is this the return you make for her 
al dcTotion ? Betrayer of her mother, robber of her has- 
nd, coward as well as villain, how dare you blast her with 
af impious curse ? " 

Richard forgot at that moment he was speaking to a fiither, 
the intensity of his indignation and scorn. His eye burned, 
I lip quivered, he looked as if he could have buried him 
linst the granite walls. 

St. James quailed and writhed out of his grasp. His face 
■ned the hue of ashes, and he staggered back like a dnmken 
m. 

" I did not mean to curse her," he cried. *^ I am mad half the 
le, and know not what I say. Who would not be mad, cut 
from comnmnion with their kind, in such a den as this, with 
nds wliispcrin^, and devils tempting, and know tliat it is not 
' a day, a week, a month, nor even a year ; but for ten long 
ars ! And what will life be then, supposing I drag out its 
ted length through imprisonment, and horror, and despair? 
liat is it now ? A worn shred, a shivelled BcroUy a blasted 
nnant of humanity ! " 

He sat down again on the side of the bed, and leaning for- 
rd, bent his face downward and buried it in his hands, 
'oans, tliat seemed to tear his breast as they forced their pas- 
^, burst spasmodically from his lips. Oh I if that travailing 
iK tnivailiii^r in sin and sorrow, would cast itself oil the 
*om of Divine Mercy, would prostrate itself at the foot of the 
>ss, till the scarlet dye of crime was washed white in a Sav- 
ir*s 1>Io<h1 ! What were ton years of imprisonment and an* 
ish, to eternal ages burning with the unquenchable fires of 
norse ! 

^ O father ! " I cried, moved by an irresistible impnlsci and 
proaching him with trembling steps, ^ these prison walls may 
x)me the house of G Jll, the gate of heaveOi dark and dismal 
they are. The Saviour will come and dwell with yoOi if 

3G 



422 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

you only look up to him in penitence and faith ; and be inD 
make them blissful with his presence. He went into the da 
of lions. lie walked through the fiery furnace. He can rend 
thct^e iron doors and give you the glorious liberty of the dut 
dren of God. If I could only speak as I feely if I only knew 
how to convince and persuade ; — but alas ! my tongue is weak, 
my words are cold. Richard will you not help me ? " 

^' If he will not listen to you, Gabriella, be would not be pe^ 
suaded though an angel spoke." 

" Why do you care about my soul ? " asked the prisoner, lift- 
ing his head from his knees, and roUing his bloodshot eyes upoQ 
me. 

" Because you are my father," I answered, — overcoming my 
trcpidiition, and speaking with fervor and energy, — ** because 
my mother prayed for you, and my Saviour died for you." 

" Your mother ! " he exclaimed ; " who was she, that she 
should pray for me ? " 

" ^ly mother ! " I repeated, fearing his mind was becoming 
unsettled ; ** if you have forgotten her, I do not wish to recall 
her." 

" I remember now, — her name was Rosalie," he said, and a 
strange expression passed over liis countenance. "I was think- 
ing: of my poor Theresa." 

ll(i looked at Richai-d as he spoke, and something like paren- 
tal tenderness solienc.Ml his features. Degraded as he was, un- 
worthy as it seemed lie must ever have been of woman's love. I 
could not help a pang of exquisite pain at the thought of my 
mother's being forgotten, while Theivsa was remembered with 
n})parent tenderness. When I met him in the Park, he expressed 
tx('<^<tling love for me for her sake, — he spoke of her as the 
bi'loved of his youth, as the being whose loss had driven him to 
dr.-[)«M*jition jnid made him the wretch mid outcast he was. And 
ntt'.v, no ('lior«l of remembrance vibrated at her imme, no ray of 
fon(hie.-s lor her ehihl played upon the sacritice I was oficring. 
It was a sordid dcei-piion tlien, — his pretended tenderness, — to 
gain access to my hn-band's gold ; and * turned, hearl-siek and 
loathing away. As 1 did so, 1 caught a glimpse of a book thai 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 488 

looked like the Bible on a little table, between the bed and the 
walL With an involuntary motion I reached forward and 
opened it 

" I am 80 glad,** I cried, looking at Richard. ^ I wanted to 
bring one ; but I thought I would ask pennission." 

^ Yes," exekimcd St James, with a ghastly smile, '^ we aU 
have Bibles, I believe. Like the priest's blessing, they coet 
nothing." 

^ But you read it, father ! " said Richard, anxiously. ^ Yoa 
cannot fail to find light and comfort in it Yoa cannot be 
altogether lonely with such a companicm." 

" What is the use of reading what one cannot understand?* 
cried he, in a gloomy tone. ^Your mother was a Cathdiia 
She did not read the Bible, and if- there is a heaven above, it 
was made for such as she." 

^^ly mother did read her Bible," answered Richard, with 
solemnity. ^' She taught me to read it, making a table of her 
knees, wliile her hands toiled for our subsistence. It was a 
lamp to lier path, a balm to her sorrows. She lived accord- 
ing to its precepts. She died, belic\'ing in its promises." 

The glistening eyes of Richard seemed to magnetize his 
father, so earnest, so steadfast was his gaze. 

^ Have you her Bible ? " he asked, in a husky voice. 

" I liave ; it was her dying gift." 

^ Bring it, and read to me the chapters she loved best Pei^ 
haps — >vho knows ? Great God I I was once a praying diild 
at my mother's knee." 

Ricliard grasped his father's hand with a strong emotion. 

^ I will bring it, father. We will read it together, and her 
spirit will breathe into our hearts. The pages are mariLcd by 
her pencil, blistered by her tears." 

*^ Yes, bring it ! " he repeated. ^ Who knows? Jost heaven! 
— who knows ? " 

Who, indeed, did know what influence that book, embalmed 
in such sacred memories, might have on the sinner^s blasted 
heart ? The fierceness and sullenness that had repelled and ter^ 
rified me on our first entrance had passed away^ and seosibilityy 



.121 EKNKdT LIN^FOOD. 

n.iiscil IVom an awful paralysis, started at the ruins it beUH 
Tluro was hope, since ho, could feel. liichard^s filial mi«iic 
miilit not be in vain. But mi/ic was. I realized llii? btfi^rc I 
k tl the cell, and resolved to yield to Lira the task wliicb 1 Lai 
1u)j)(h1 to share. I could not help feeling grieved and Ji;ap- 
])oint<;(l, not !=o much on my own aceouzit, as for the indifferecce 
ni:i:iit'e.-ted to my mother's memory, — that mother who had 
lovL'd liiin, even to her dying hour. 

3.1y h(tart hardened against him ; but when I rose to ga acd 
lo'jkul round on the narrow and dismal tomb in which he was 
incl(h ( d, and then on liis hollow cheek and wasted frame. and 
tliought in all human probability those walls would prove liii 
grave, it melted with the tenderest compassion. 

"Is tin,' re any thing I can do for your comfort?" I a«kt:'i 
iiyiii'j: in vain to keep back the rushing tears. *• Gui I >eni 
you :iny tiling to do you good? If you wish to see me a;r.iiR. 
tell Richard, and I will come; but I do not wish to be in rhe 
v.ny. He, I see, can do every thing I could do, and far 
1:1' »r<'. I thought a daughter could draw so near a fiUh'-ri 
hi'i'.rt I" 

1 . u }»i)od, choked with emotion which seemed contagiou-. for 
nivlianl turned iu-ide and took up his handkerchief, which hod 
ur.'j»I>(.il upon the bed. St. James was agitated. He g.ive the 
li;ni(I wliioh I extended a spasmodic i)rcssure, and looked trxnn 
nio to lilcluird, and then back again, with a pcculiiir, hesitating 
cxjnvs.-ion. 

'* Fv»r-iv(^ me,** said he, in a gentler accent tluin I had vet 
1: aid him use, "my harsh, lierce woi*ds ; as I told you, it was a 
(I iiioii's utif ranee, not mine. You would have saved me, I 
iiiiow yi»u would. I made you unhappy, and plunged into por- 
r.\.l'i\ liiys'.ir. No, you had better not come again. You are 
tuo Jovclv, too tiMuler Ibr this grim place. My boy will come; 
;:i:il you, yon, my child, may pray for me, if you do not think 
i; mockery to a.-k (.lod to pardon a wretch like me." 

i looki.'d in hi> laec, inexpressibly allected by the unexpected 
.':<i'llrn< -s oi' lii-; word- and manner. Surely the spirit ot'God 
w;;s beginning to move over the stagnmit waters of sin and 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 425 

despair. I was about to leave him,— the lonelj, — the doomed* 
If too, was lonely and doomed. 

" Father ! " I cried, and with an impulse of pi^ and angiiish 
I threw my arms round him and wept as if my heart was 
breaking ; ^^ I would willingly wear out my life in prayer for 
jouy but O, pray for yourself One prayer from yoor heart 
would be worth ten thousand of mine." 

I thouglit not of the haggard form I was embraciiig ; I 
thought of the immortal soul that inhabited it ; and it seemed a 
sacred ruin. lie clasped me convulsively to him one momeoty 
then suddenly withdrawing his arms, he poshed me towards 
Bictmrd, — not harshly, but as if bidding him take care of me ; 
and throwing himself on the bed, he turned his &ce downwaid, 
80 that his long black hair covered it from sight 

^ Let us go,*' said Richard, in a low voice ; ^ we had better 
leave him now." 

As we were passing very sofUy out of the cell| he raised his 
head partially, and calling to Richard, said, — 

'* Come back, my son, to-morrow. I have something to teU 
you. I ought to do it now, while you are both here, bat to- 
morrow will do ; and do n't forget your mother's Bible." 

Again we traversed the stone galleries, the dismal stairs, and 
our footsteps lefl behind us a cold, sepulchral sound. Neither 
of us si)oke, for a kind of funeral silence solemnized our hearts. 
I looked ut one of the figures that were gliding along the apper 
galleries, though there were many of them, — prisoners, who 
being condemned for lighter offences than murder or forgery, 
were allowed to walk under the eye of a keeper. I was con- 
scious of passing them, but they only seemed to deepen the 
gloom, like ravens and bats flapping their wings in a deserted 
tower. 

As we came into the light of day, which, straggling throagfa 
massy ridges of darkness, burst between the grand and gloomy 
columns that supported the fabric, I felt as if a great stone were 
rolling from my breast. I raised the veil, which I had drawn 
closely over my face, to inhale the air that flowed from the 

86 • 



426 ERNEST LIN WOOD. 

worlil without. I was coming out of darkno>s into li;rht. out t-f 
iiiiT>ri:H»nmcnt into frceilom, Runshine, and tlie breath of h»."avtL 
There wtTC men traversing the vestibule in many Jireciicni; 
mill Ivi chard hurried me on, that I might escape the jsu'i >.« 
curiosity or the stare of impertinence. Against one of iLe ji.- 
lar.s which we passed, a gentleman was standing, wLo?f fignr: 
was ^o striking as to attract my abstracted eye. I Lad rf?ii 
him bofore. I knew him instantaneously, though I had only 
had a passing glimpse of him the morning we left the Falk It 
wa-i the gentleman who had accosted Julian, and who had stamped 
himself so indelibly on my memory. And now, as I came 
HL-arcr, I was struck by a resemblance in his air and feature? w 
our unhappy father. It is true there was the kind of dilTerena 
tliL-ro is between a fallen spirit and an angel of light ; for the 
expression of the stranger's face was noble and dignilicd, as if 
oonscious that he still wore undefaced the image of his Alakv:. 
Ill' lifted his hat as we passed, with that graceful coiirte.7 
w-iii'h marks the gentleman, and I again noticed that the dark 
waves of his hair were mingled with snow. It reminded mc 
oi" I hose wreaths of frost I had seen hanging from the eve^ 
r:i\ en- of Gran<Hson Place. 

Tlui siu'rularity of the place, the earnestness of his gaze. arJ 
the ( xtrairJinary attraction I felt towards him, brought il>.' 
v.arni. hr!.rlit color to my cheeks, and I instinctively dn^j-ptJ 
I lie veil ulilcli I had raised a moment before. As we eatercJ 
llie e;uTi;ige, wliieh had been kept in waiting, the hors»s, Li/a- 
rl-ij"iie<l and iriipalient, threatened to break loose fn>m the 
(l.iveiV c. »ntroh — when the stranger, coming rapidly forward, 
: t()n;l j\t their heads till their transient rebellion was over. Il 
^^:•.s ],!it an instant ; ibr as Richard leaned fi"om the carri:is:e 
\. iin]')'A' to thank him, the horse.', dashed forward, and I onlv 
e. ;.!;.■ lit mvj nion^ ^dinipse of his line, though pensive features. 

" Kielianl, did you not perceive a resemblance to our father 
i]i tl:is gentleman, n-jble and distinguished as he appears? I 
wo<; 5lruck with it at the first glance." 

'• '^ <s, there i-; a likeness ; ])ut not greater than we very often 



1 

I 




. ERNEST LINWOOD. 427 

see strangers bearing to each other. My father must once have 
been a fine looking man, though now 8o sad a wreck. A life 
of sinful indulgence, followed by remorse and retribution^ leaves 
terrible scars on the face as well as the souL" 

" But how strange it is, that we are sometimes so drawn to- 
wards strangers, as by a loadstone's power ! I saw this gentle- 
man once before, at the Falls of Niagara, and I felt the same 
sadden attraction that I do now. I may never see him again. 
It is not probable that I ever shall ; but it will be impossible 
for me to forget him. I feel as if he must have some influence 
on my destiny ; and such a confidence in his noble qualities, 
that if I were in danger I would appeal to him for protection, 
and in sorrow, for sympathy and consolation. Yon smile, 
Bichard. I dare say it all sounds foolish to you, bat it is even 
so." 

^' Not foolish, but romantic, my own darling sister. I like 
such sentiments. I like any thing better than the stereotyped 
thoughts of the world. You have a right to be romantic, Ga- 
briella, for your life lias been one of strange and thrilling 
interest." 

** Yes ; strange indeed 1 " I answered, while my soul rolled 
back on the billows of the past, wondering at the storms that 
heaved them so high, when life to many seemed smooth as a 
sea of gla<s. Then I thought how sweet the haven of eternal 
repose must be to the wave-worn mariner ; how much sweeter 
to one who had had a tempestuous voyage, than one who had 
been floating on a tranquil current ; and the closing verse of an 
old hymn came melodiously to my recollection : — 

" There will I hatho my weary seal 
In seas of endless rest. 
And not a wave of trouble roll 
Across my peaceful breast" 



CHAPTER LV. 

What a contrast did the large, airy, pleasant nurseiy rooai 
of Mrs. Braban present, to the narrow cell I had so lately 
quitted ! I accompanied her there aAer dinner, while Richard, 
anxious to follow up the impression he had made, retamed to 
the ])rison, taking with him his mother's Bible. I had hardlj 
thought of the communication which he said be wished to make, 
till I saw Richard depart Then it recurred to me ; but it did 
not seem possible that it could interest or affect me much, though 
it might my brother. 

1 have not spoken of Mrs. Brahan's children, because I have 
had so much to say of others ; but she had children, and \eij 
lovely ones, who were the crowning blessings of her home. 
Her eldest were at school, but there were three inmates of the 
nursery, from five to ten years of age, adorned with the sweetest 
cliarnis of chiUlhood, brightness, purity, and bloom. She called 
them playfully her three little graces; and I never admired her 
so nuicli, as when she made herself a child in their midst, and 
participated in their innocent amusements. After supper thej 
were brou<]^ht into the parlor to be companions of their father 
one hour, which lie devoted exclusively to their instruction and 
recreation; but alter dinner JSIrs. Brahan took the place of 
tli<' nurse, or rather governess, and I felt it a privilege to be 
with her, it made me feel so entirely at home, and the presence 
of cliiklliood freshened and enlivened the spirits. It seemed as 
if fairy lirigrrs were scattering rose-leaves on my heart. Was 
it possible that these young, innocent creatures would ever be- 
come hardened by worldliness, jwlluted by sin, or saddened bj 
sorrow ? And yet the doomed dweller of the Tombs had said 

(42S) 



EBNEBT LIMWOOD. 429 

that morning, " that he wob once a praTing child at hU mother's 
knee '. " How would that mother liave felt, it, when hia umo- 
ccnt hnnds were foldt;d on licr lap and hla cherub lipa repeated 
words which perhaps angels interpreted, she could have looked 
into future ycani, and beheld the condemned and blasted being 
in wliosi! wilhering reins her own lifublood was flowing ? 

While I was reclining on the children's bed and the yonngeflt 
little girl was playing with my ringlets, as short (tnd cbildigh as 
her own, I was told a gentleman was in the parlor, who inquired 
for me. 

"Cannot I excuse myself?" I asked of Mn. Brahan. "I 
£d not wi^h any one to know that I was in the city. I did not 
wL*b lo meet any of my former acquaintances." 

Then it suililenly lla::^hcd into my mind, that it might bo some 
one wlio brought tidings of Kmcst, some one who hod met the 
" Star of the East," on his homeward Toyi^. There was 
noiliing wild in the idea, and when I mentioned it to Mrs. Bra- 
han, the siiid it was i>os5ible, and that I bad Ix^ter go dowo. 
Sitppo-in;- it wiis a messenger of evil ! I felt as if I had lxim« 
all 1 (fluid bear, and Uvc. Tlien all at once I thought of the 
striii^rr whom I had seen in the vcstlbulo of the prison, and I 
wa-: I'ure it was he. But who was he, and why bad he come? 
I wn.'> obliged to stop at the door, to coromand my a^tatioo, bo 
nervous had I been made by the shock from which I had not 
yet recovered. My cheeks burned, but my hands were cold 



Yes it was he. The moment I opened the door, I recognized 
him, the ^t^Iely .-ilrangcr of the Tombs. lie was standing in 
front of the beautiful painting of tho fortress, and his face was 
from i[ie. lliit he turned at my entrance, and advanced eagerly 
to ni'.-et ni<-. He was excessively pale, and varying emotions 
swept over his countenance, like clouds drifted by a stormy 
wind. Titliing both my liands in his, be drew me towards him, > 
with a movement 1 had no power to resist, and looked in my 
face with eyes in which every passion of tho soul seemed ooo- 
ceiitralcd, but in which joy like a snn-my shone triumphant. 

Even bffor« he opened his anna and daspad me to fait 



430 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

bo?om, I felt an invisible power drawing me to his heart, and 
telling me I hiul a riglit to be there. 

"Gabriella! child of my Rosalie! my own lost dariiDg!'* 
he oxclaimc^il, in broken accents, folding me closer and clo?cr 
in liis arms, as if fearing I would vanish from his embrace. 
"Gracious God! I thank thee, — Ileavenlj Father! I bka 
lliee for this liour. AiU'r long years of mourning, and be^eaT^ 
mcnt, and loneliness, to find a treasure so dear, to feel a joj so 
holy ! Oh, my God, what shall I render unto Thee for all ihy 
benctils!" 

Tlien he bowed his head on my neck, and I felt hot tean 
gushing from his eyes, and sobs, like the deep, pi^sionate so2» 
of childhood, convulsing his breast. 

Yes, he teas my father. I knew it, — I felt it, as if the 
voice of God had spoken from the clouds of heaven to pn>» 
cliiim it. lie was my father, the beloved of my angelic 
mother, and he had never wronged hei>wiever. lie had not 
been the deceiver, but the deceived. Without a word of ex- 
planation 1 believed this, for it was written as if in sunl»cains 
on his noble brow. The dreams of my childhood were all 
embodied in him ; and overpowei*ed by reverence, love, gratitude, 
and joy, I slid from his arms, and on bended knees and with 
clasped hands, looked up in his face and repeated again and 
again the sacred name of ** Father." 

It is iiiipos>ihIe to describe such bewildering, such intense 
emotions. Seldom, except in dreams, are they felt, when tlie 
si)irit s<em.s free from the fettei*s of earth. Even when I found 
my self sitting by his side, still encircled in his arms and lean- 
ing on his heart, I could scarcely convince myself that the 
scene was real. 

*' And Eiehard, my brother!" I cried, beginning to feel be- 
wildered at the mysteries that were to be unravelled ; **joyi3 
not perfect till he shares it with me." 

" Will it make you unhapj>y, my darling Gabriella, to know 
that Richard is your cousin, instead of your brother ? " 

I j)res>ed my hands on my forehead, for it ached with the 
quick, lightning-like thoughts that ilashed through my brain. 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 481 

''And he, the inmate of yon dismal oell ? '^ I exdaimed, an- 
ticipating, as if bj intuition, the reply, — > 

*^ Is mj brother, my twin brother, whom in youth oar mother 
ooold not distinguish from myself. This fatal resemblance has 
caused all my woe. Theresa la Fontaine was Us wife and 
Bichard is ht$ 'son, not mine." 

How simple, how natural, all this seemed I Why had not my 
mother dreamed of the possibility of such a thing I Knowing 
the existence of this brother, why had she not at once found in 
him the solution of the dark problem, which was the enigma 
as well as anguish of her life ? " 

^ My unhappy brother I " said he, while a dark shade rested 
on his brow ; ^^ little did I think, when I visited his dungeon this 
morning, of the revelation he would make I I have been an 
exile and a wanderer many years, or I might perhaps have 
learned sooner what a blessing Heaven has been guarding for 
my sad and lonely heart. I saw you as you passed out of the 
pridon, and your resemblance to my beloved Rosalie struck me, 
as an electric shock.** 

^ And yours to him whom I believed my fiUher, had the same 
effect on me. How strange it was, that then I felt as if I would 
give worlds to call you father, instead of the wretched being I 
had just (juitted.** 

^ Then you are willing to acknowledge me, my beloved, my 
lovely daughter," said he, pressing a father's kiss on my fore- 
head, froin wliieh hi.s hand fondly put back the clustering locks. 
^ ^ly daughter ! let me repeat the name. My daughter I how 
sweet, how holy it sounds ! Had she lived, or had she only 
known before she died, the constancy and purity of my love ; 
but for;:rivc me, thou Almighty chastener of nmn's erring hearti 
I dare not murmur. She knows all this now. She has given 
me her divine forgiveness." 

'^ She \vi\ it with me, father, to give yon ; not only her fbr- 
givene.s.4, but her undying love, and her dying blessing." 

Withdrawing the arm with which he still embraced me, ha 
bowed hU face on his hands, and I hardly dared to breathe lest 
I should disturb the sacredness of his emotionfc *^ She knows 



\ 



.\:y> ERNEST LINWOOD. 

all tbi.^ now." My heart rci>eated the words. Methouglii :'.• 
wiivis ot' licT spirit wen- hovering round us, — her hu^kirnland 
h< r ohiM, — whom th(; hand of God hnd hnnijrht to;ietber af*-:: 
Yt iir- (»r alienation and sorrow. And other tlioujrhrs pKv*! 
<h»\vn upon mc. l>y and by, when we were all uniK-d in tbs 
worM, win. re we should know even as we are kuown, Ernrft 
would n.ad my heart, by the light of eternity, and then he 
would know how I loved him.. There would be no moR» ja- 
pition, or jealousy, or estrangement, but perfect love and per- 
Icci joy v.ould absorb the memorj- of sorrow. 

" And you are married, my Gabriella ? " were the tirst woni? 
niv lUilicr said, wIk'u he auain turned towards me. " IIow diiS- 
cub to realize ; and you l(X)king so very 3'ouug. Young a? yoj 
rciilly are, you cheat the eye of several years of youth! " 

'• [ was very ill, and when I woke to consciousness. I fvj&l 
mvsell' >liorn of the ♦▼lory of womanhood, — mv Ion;; liair.^ 

'• You are so like my Rosalie. Your face, your eyes, your 
smile : and I feel that you have her pure and loving heart. 
lleaseu ])re^erve it from the blight that fell on here ! " 

Tiie Millie fadeil irom my lip, and a quick sigh that I cnalJ 
noL repi('.s< saddened its expression. The ejos of my father 
wen- \.n ut auxiouslv on me. 

*' 1 loui t«) see the husband of my child," said ho* "Is he 
not wiib you?" 

*' No, my father, he is far away. Do not speak of him now, 
I ean onlv lliiiik of vou." 

*' It* lie i- I'aitliles^ to a ehargc so dear," exclaimed St. James, 
\\i:li a KiiidlinL' ,L'Ianeo. 

* N;^y, father; but I have so much to teU, so much to lioar. 
WW brain is dizzv v»ifh the thought. You shall have ail mv 
e.)!:i!«l(iiei\ ]»elieve me vou shall: and oh, how sweet it i> to 
liiiak liiai 1 liav.- a lather's breast to h'an upon, a fathers 
ana- tu .-In -Iter me, tlioiiLdi the Storms of Ufe may blow cold 
ai!'I tl:« ary ruiuul nie, — and such a fatiier ! — after feeling <uch 
aiii'iii Ii arnl shame from my su])posed parentage. Poor Kichard! 
h«.»w ! j;iiy bini ! " 

'* Voii love him, then ? Believing him your brother, yoa 
have loved him as .-ueh?" 



ESITEBT LIHTOOS. 489 

"I could not lore him better wera be indeed my Inothei; 
Ho was the friend of my childhood," and a crimson hoe Mole 
over mj face at the remembrance of a love more paaaionots 
tiian a brother's. " He is gifted with ererjr good and noble 
quality, every pure and generous feeling^— fiiend, brother, 
eouain — it matters not which — he will ever be the same to 
me." 

Then I spoke of Mis. Linwood, my adopted mother, — of 
my incalculable obligations, my unutterable gratitude, love, and 
admiration, — of the lovely Kdith and her usterly affection, 
and I told him how I longed that he shoold see them, and that 
tMey should know that I had a father, whom I was prond to aty 
knowledge, instead of one who reflected disgrace even oo 
them. 

" Oh I I have so much to tell, so much to hear," I again re- 
peated. " I know not when or where we shall begin. It is n 
bewildering, so strange, so like a dream. I fear to let go your 
hand lest you vanish from my sight and I lose you forever." 

" Ab, toy child, you cannot feel as I do. You have enshrined 
other images in your heart, but mine is a lonely temple, into 
which you come as a divinity to be worshipped, aa well aa a 
daughter to be loved. I did not expect such implicit faith, sodt 
undoubting confidence. I feared you would shrink from a strao- 
gur, and require proofs of the truth of his assertions. I dared 
not hope for a greeting so tender, a trust so spontaneous." 

" Oh ! I should as soon doubt that God was my Father in 
heaven, as you my father on earth. I know it, I do not beUtM 
iu" 

I think my feelings must have been something like a blind 
person's on first emerging from the darkness that has wr^>ped 
him from his birth. He does not ask, when the sunbeams fall 
on Ilia unclouded vision, i/i( beUghi. Ho knows it is, because it 
fiUs his new-born capacities for sight, — he knows it is, by ibe 
shadows that rail from before it. I knew it was my father, be- 
cause he met all the wants of my yearning filial nature, becaose 
I felt him worthy of honor, admiiatira, reverence, and love. 

I know not bow long I had been with him, when Mr< Bfih a n 
37 



434 EKNE8T LINWOOD. 

entered ; and though it had heen seventeen years since he hi 
seen him, he immediately recognized the artist he had so mud 

admired. 

*^ I have found a daughter, sir," said St. James, grasping ]m 
hand with fervor. He could not add another word, and no 
other was necessary. 

"I told her so," cried Mr. Brahan, afler expressing the 
warmest congratulations ; " I told her husband so. I knew the 
wretch who assumes your name was an impostor, thou^ he 
wonderfully rescmhles yourself." 

^^ He has a right to the name he bears," answered my father, 
and his countenance clouded as it always did when he alluded 
to his brother. " We are twin brothers, and our extraordinarj 
resemblance in youth and early manhood caused mistakes as 
numerous as those recorded in the Comedy of Eirors, and hud 
tlie foundation of a tragedy seldom found in the experience of 
life." 

While they were conversing, I stole from the room and nm 
u[) stairs to tell Mrs. Bralian the wondrous tidings. Her sym- 
pathy was as heart-felt as I expected, — her surprise less. She 
never could believe that man my father. Mr. Brahan alwajs 
said lie was an impostor, only he had no means to prove iu 

" How beautiful ! " she said, her eyes glistening with sympa- 
tlietic emotion, " that he should find you here, in his own wed- 
ded liome, — the place of your birth, — the spot sanctified hy 
tlie holiest memories of love. Has not your filial mission been 
blest? Hivs not Providence led you by a way you little 
dreamed of? My dear Gabriella, you must not indulge another 
sad misgiving or gloomy fear. Indeed you must not*** 

" I know I ought not ; but come and see ray father.** 

" Whiit is he like ?" she asked, with a smile. 

'' Like tlu; drvain of my childhood, when I imagined him one 
of the sons of God, sueh as once came do>vn to earth." 

" Komantie ehiid ! " she exclaimed ; but when she saw my 
father, 1 read admiration as wcdl as respect in her speaking eye, 
and I wa< tati-fi<'d with liie impression he had made. 

liichard eanie soon after, uiformed by liis father of all I 




EBNEBT LINWOOD. 435 

could tell him and a great deal more, which he nibseqaenl^ 
related to me. I think he was happier to know that he 
was mj cousin, than when he believed himeetf mj brother. 
Hie transition from a lover to a brother was too painfiiL He 
eould not divest himself of the idea of gailt, which, however in* 
Toluntarj, made him shudder in remembrance. But a conunl 
The tenderness of natural affection and the memories of love, 
might unite in a bond bo near and dear, and hallow each other. 

In the joy of mj emancipation from imagined disgrace, I did 
not forget that the cloud still rested darklj on him, — that be 
■till groaned under the burden which bad been lifted from m; 
■ouL He told me that be bad hope of his &tber'a ultimate 
n^neratjon, — that be had found bim much softened, — tbat he 
wept at the eight of Ther^^'s Bible, and still more when he 
read aloud to bim the chapters which gave most consolatiai to 
her dying bours. 

The unexpected ri^it of his brother, from whom he bad been 
so long separated, and whom ho supposed was dead, bad stirred 
still deeper the abysses of memory and feeling. 

I will now turn a little while from myself, and give a brief 
history of tlio twin brothers, aa I learned it from mj father's Bps, 
and Richard's, who narrated to me the story of Au father's lifis 
aa be heard it in the dungeon of the Tombb 



1 



I 

\ 

I 



CHAPTER L.VI. 

Henry Gabriel and Gabriel Henry St James, were born 
in the Ilifjlilanda of New York. Their father was of £n<riiah 
extraction, though of American birth ; their mother the daughter 
of a French refugee, who had sought shelter in the land of free- 
dom from the storms of the Revolution. So the elements of 
three nations mingled in their veins. 

There was nothing remarkable in their childhood, but th«r 
resemblance to each other, which was so perfect that their own 
mother was not able to distinguish the one from the other. 
Perhaps either of them, seen separately, would not have excited 
extraordinary interest, but together they formed an ima^ o£ 
dual beauty as rare as it was attractive. They were remarkable 
for their fine physical development, their blooming health, and 
its usual accompaniments, sunniness of temper, and gaiety of 
spirits ; but even in early childhood these twin-bom bodies 
sliowed that they were vitalized by far different souLs. Tlieir 
father was a sea-captain ; and while Gabriel would climb bis 
km OS and listen with eager delight to tales of ocean life and 
stirring; adventures, Henry, seated at his mother*s feet, with his 
hands clasped on her lap and his eyes riveted on her face, 
would gather up her gently sparkling words in his young heart, 
and tliey became a pavement of diamonds, indestructible as it 
was bright and pure. 

As they grew older, the master-passion of each became more 
api)urent. Gabriil made mimic boats and ships, and launched 
them on the bosom of a stream which flowed back of their 
dwolIin<r, an infant ar;ro<y freighted with golden hopes. Hemy 
drrw ii;zur('s on tho sandy ^h()r(^ of birds and beasts and creep- 



SBHKBT LIHWOOD. 487 

ing things, nnd conrerted eveij possible material into tabletaibr 
the impnssiona of his dawning genius. Gabriel was his fittber*! 
darling, Henry liis mothor'a beloved. I said she coold not die* 
tinguLsh her twin-bom boys ; but when she looked into theor 
eyes, there was EOmeihing in the earnest depths rf Heniys, aa 
answering expression of lore and sensibih^, which she sooght 
in vain in his brotlier's. The soul of the sea-dreaming bo^ was 
Dot with her; it was following the &ther on the foaming pUhs 
of ocean. 

" My boys shall go with me on my next vojaga," said the 
eaptain. " It u time to think of making men of them. Thej 
have been poring over books long enough to have a bolid^ ; 
and, by the living Jove, they shall hare it. It is Ihe min of 
bojs to be tied to tlicir mothcr'a apron strings after they are 
twelve yean old. Tlicy are fit for nothing but peddlers or ecA- 
porteura." 

Gabriel clapped bis bonds exoltingly ; bat Henry drew doaer 
to his mother's side. 

** My hero, my young brave," cried the wtptain, slapping hia 
favorite boy on the shoulder, " you are worth a doien such girl- 
boys ta your brother. Let him be a kitten and cry mew, if Im 
will, while you climb the topgallant-mast and make ladders of 
the clouds." 

" I am as brave as he is," said Henry, straightening hit 
youthful figure, and looking at his father with a Hm^Ung eyb 
" 1 urn not afraid of the water ; but who will protect my mother, 
if I go away with you ? " 

" Uravo ! There is some spirit in the boy after all," e^ 
claimed the captain, who loved his wife with the devntian and 
coniitancy of a sailor. " Ho has chosen an honorable post, and 
by heaven I will not force him to leave it. I see that nature^ 
when i»he gave us twins, intended we should go shares in our 
boys. It is jusL Gabriel shall go with me, bat tte silver cop 
of fortune may after all find its way in Henry's sacL" 

Tims at twelve years of age the twin brothers sepaqUed, and 
from that era Ih^ lifa-paths diverged into a oonstanUy widei^ 
ing angle. 

87« 



438 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

The captain discovered too late the error he had ainnutud 
in cultivating the roving propensities of his son, to the excloaoii 
of steady, nobler pursuit*. He had intended merely to give 
him a holiday, and a taste of a seafaring life ; but after reTCr 
ling in the joys of freedom, he found it impossible to bind him 
down to the restraints of scholastic life. He wanted him to so 
to college, but the young rover bravely refused obedience to 
parental authority, saying, that one genius in a family wu 
enough ; and the father, gazing with pride on the wild, band- 
some, and dauntless boy, said there was no use in twisting the 
vine the wrong way, and yielded to his will. Henry, imbo- 
somed in classic shades, gathered the fruits of science and 
the flowers of literature, while his genius as an artist, thou^ 
apparently dormant, waited the Ithuricl touch of opportunity to 
wake into life and action. 

Captain St, James had prospered in his enterprises and a^ 
quired a handsome fortune, so that his sons would not be 
dependent on their own exertions for support. Gabriel unfiff^ 
tuuately knew this circumstance too well, and on the faith of 
his fathei-'s fortune indulged in habits of extravagance anddi- 
sipation as ruinous as they were disgraceful. The captain did 
not live to witness the complete degradation of his favorite son. 
His vcs.-el was wrecked on a homeward voyage, and the waves 
became the sailor's windinn^-sheet. His wife did not lonz su> 
vivc liim. She died, i)ining for the genial air of her own sunny 
clime, leaving the impress of her virtues and her graces on the 
character of one of her sons. Alas for the other ! 

True now from parental restraint, as he had long been from 
moral obligations, Gabriel plunged into the wildest excesses of 
dissipation. In vain Henrj' lifted his warning voice, in vain 
he extended liis guardian hand, to save him who liad now be- 
cojiie tlie slave as well as the votary of vice. His soul clave to 
his brother with a tenderness of affection, which neither his sel- 
fishness nor vices, not even his crimes, could destroy. A gam- 
bler, a roue, every thing but a drunkard, he at length became 
involved in so disgraceful a transaction, he was compelled ftr 
jsafety to flee tlu* country; and Henry, ignorant what coonehe 




BRNB8T LINWOOD. 489 

had taken, gave him up in despair, and tried to forget the ex- 
istence of one whose rememhranoe could onlj awaken munrm 
and shame. He went to Europe, as has heen previoudj rekted, 
and with the eye of a painter and the heart of a poet, travelled 
fiom clime to dime, and garnered up in his imagination the 
■ahlimities of nature and the wonders of art. His genius grew 
and blossomed amid the warm and fostering influences c£ an 
eMer world, till it formed, as it were, a bower around him, in 
whose perennial shades he could retire from haunting memo- 
ries and uncongenial associations. 

In the mean time, Gabriel had found refuge in his mothei^s 
native land. During his wild, roving life, he had mingled mach 
vith foreigners, and acquired a perfect knowledge oi the French 
language, — I should rather saj his knowledge was perfected 
bj practice, for the twin brothers had been taught from infiuu^ 
the melodious and expressive language of their mother^s native 
dime. The facility with which he conversed, and his ex- 
tremely handsome person, were advantages whose value he 
well knew how to appreciate, and to make subservient to his 
use. 

It was at this time that he became acquainted with Therte 
Josephine La Fontaine, and his worn and sated passions were 
quickened into new life. She was not beautiful, ^ but fair and 
excellent," and of a character that exercises a commanding 
influence over the heart of man. Had he known her before 
habits of selfish indulgence had become, like the Ethiopian's 
skin and the leopard's spots, too deep and indelible for chemic 
art to change, she might perhaps have saved him from the trans- 
gressor's doom. She loved him with all the ardor of her pure, 
yet impassioned nature, and fully believed that her heart was 
given to one of the sons of light, instead of the children of 
darkness. For awhile his sin-dyed spirit seemed to bleach in 
the whitening atmosphere that surrounded him, for a flither^s as 
well as a husband's joy was his. But at length the demon of 
ennui possessed him. Satan was discontented in the bowers of 
Paradise. Gabriel sighed for his profligate companions, in the 
bosom of wedded love and joy. He lefl home on a false pr»- 



440 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

tence, and never returned. It was long before Thei^sa admil- 
ted 11 doubt of bis fuitb, and it was not till a rumor of liid ma> 
riage in Americ4x reaebed her ear, that she believed it possiUe 
that be could deceive and betray her. An American travellei 
from New York, who knew Henry St. James and was uncon- 
scious of the existence of his brother, spoke of his mazriage 
and bis beautiful bride in terms that roused every dormant p«»- 
sion in the breast of the deserted Theresa. Yet she waited 
long in the bo[)e and the faith of woman's trusting heart, ding- 
ing to the bebcf of her husband's integrity and truth, with 
woman's fond adhesiveness. At length, when she had but cun 
vincing reason to believe herself a betrayed and abaudooe^i 
wile, she took her boy in her arms, crossed the ocean M-asie, 
landed in New York, and by the aid of a directory sought the 
home of Henry St. James, deeming herself the legitimate mis- 
tress of the mansion she made desolate by her presence. The 
result of her visit has been already told. She unconsciously 
destroyed the happiness of others, without securing her own. 
It is not strange, that in the moment of agony and distraction 
caused by the revelation made by Theresa, Rosalie should not 
have noticed in the marriage certificate the difiference between 
the names of Henry Gabriel and Gabriel Henry St. James. 

Henry St. James had been summoned to Texas, then the 
Botany Bay of America, by his unhappy brother, who had there 
001 nine need a new career of sin and misery. Ho had gambled 
away his fortune, killed a man in a scene of strife and blasphe- 
my, been convicted of homicide, escaped from the sentence, and, 
lurking in by-lanes and accursed places, fell sick, and wrote to 
his brotlier to come and save him from infamy and death. 

How could he wound the spotless ears of Rosalie by the tale 
of liis bnjtlier's guilt and shame ? He had never spoken to her 
of liis existence, tlie subject was so exquisitely painful, for he 
believed himself ibr ever separated from him, and why should 
his blasted name cast a shadow over the heaven of his domestic 
hai)p in ess ? 

After having raised his miserable brother from tlie gulf of 
<le!:^radation in whicli he had i)lunged, and given bim the mean? 




ERNEST LINWOOD. 441 

of establishiDg himself in some honorable utaatkniy which he 
promised to seek, he returned to find his home occupied by 
strangers, his wife and child fled, his happiness wrecked, and his 
peace destroyed. The deluded and half frantic Therdsa, believ- 
faig him to be her husband, appealed to him, by the memory of 
their former love and wedded felidtj, to forgive the steps she 
had taken that she might assert the claims of her deserted boj. 
Maddened by the loss of the wife whom he adored, he became 
for the time a maniac ; and so terrible was his indignation and 
despair, the unhappj victim of his brother's perfidy fied trem- 
bling and dismayed from his presence. 

In the calmer moments that succeeded the first paroxysms of 
his agony, Henry thought of his brother and of the extraordi- 
nary resemblance they bore to each other, and the mystery 
which frenzied passion had at first veiled from hb eyes was 
partially revealed to his understanding. Gould he then have 
seen her, and could she prove that she was the wife of GkLbriel, 
he would have protected her with a brother^s care and tender- 
ness. But his first thought was for Rosalie,— -the young, the 
beloved, the deceived, the fugitive Rosalie, of whose fiight no 
clue could be discovered, no trace be found. The servants 
could throw no light on the mystery, for she had left in the 
darkness and silence of night. They only knew that P^ggy 
disappeared at the same time, and was probably her companiofi. 
This circumstance afforded a faint relief to Henry's dbtracted 
mind, for he knew Feggy-s physical strength and moral courage, 
as well as her remarkable attachment to his lovely and gentle 
wife. But whither had they gone ? The natural suppositioii 
was, that she would throw herself on the protection of her step- 
mother, as the only person on whom she had any Intimate 
claims, — unkind as she had formerly been. He immediately 
started for the embattled walls of Fortress Monroe, — bat before 
his departure, he put advertisements in every paper, which, if 
they met her eye, she could not fail to understand. Alas I they 
never reached the gray cottage imbosomed in New England 
woods ! 

In vain he sought her in the wave-washed lioine of her diild« 



442 ERNEST UNWOOD. 

ho(Ml. He met with no pjinpatliy from the slighted and ji-aioM 
st«*p-in()ther, who had dt.*?troyed the only link that bound ihoa 
toLTL'thcr, the name ot* her father. She had married aj^iin. a.*^ 
di -owned all interest in the daughter of her former hu«lnmi 
She went still furth<^r, and wreake<l her vengeance on St. JankS 
iur the wounds ho had inflicted on her vanity, by a-spersins and 
slnnd(.*ring the innocent Rosalie. He left her in indignation and 
distrust, and wand<?n,Ml without guide or com{>a?Sy like another 
Orpin 'u^ in search of the lost Eurydice. Had he known Pe^^'s 
native place, he might have turned in the right direction, but Ik 
was ignorant of ev<'ry thing but her name and virtue?. At 
h'ligth, weary and desiwnding, he resolved to seek in furtiin 
laiKls, and in devotion to his art, oblivion of his sorrows. Ja.H 
be lore his departure he met his brother, and told him of the 
circumstances which banished him from home and countiy. 
Gabriel, whose love for Theresa had been the one golden veci 
in the <hirk ore of his nature, was awakened to bitter, though 
short-lived remorse, not only for the ruin he brought on her, but 
tlie brother, whose fraternal kindness had met with so friul a 
r(M|iiitaI. Touched by the exhibition of his grief and s^lf- 
rcproa(!h, Henry committed to his keeping a miniature ot* Ro- 
salie, of which he had a duplicate, that he might be able to iden- 
tify her, and Gabriel promised, if he discovered one trace of hi3 
wife and child, that he would write to his brother and recall 
him. 

Tluiy parted. Henry went to Italy, where images of ideal 
lovclin(fss mingled with, though they could not s*upplant, the 
haunt ini; memories of his native clime. As an artist, and as a 
man, lie was admired, respected, and beloved; and he found 
consolation, tiiough not happiness. The one great sorrow of kifl 
lifii f<ll like a mountain shadow over his heart; but it darkened 
its l>rightness without chilling its warmth. He was still the 
synij)atliizing frirnd of humanity, the comforter of the afflicted, 
the benefactor of the poor. 

In the mean tinu* (iahriel continued his reckless and dissolute 
course, sometimes on land, sometimes on sea, an adventurer, a 
speculator, a gambler, and a wretch. Destiny chanced to 



\ 
I 




SBNS8T LIVWOOB. 448 

throw him into the vortex of oormption boiling in the heart of 
New York, when I went there, the bride of Ernest. He had 
aeen me in the street, before he met me at the theatre ; and, 
itnick by mj resemblance to the miniature which his brother 
had given him, he inquired and learned mj name and historji 
as well as the wealth and rank of mj husband* Confirmed in 
his suspicion that I was the child of Rosalie, he resolved to fiO 
his empty pockets with mj husband's gold| by making me be- 
lieve that he was my father, and appealing to my filial oompaa- 
aion. Not satisfied with his suocess, he forged the note, whose 
discovery was followed by detection, conviction, imprisonment^ 
mnd despair. 

The only avenue to his seared and hardened heart had been 
found by the son of Theresa, coming to him like a messenger 
from licaven, in all his purity, excellence, and filial piety, not to 
avenge a mother's wrongs, but to cheer and illumine a guilty 
ffUher*s doom. His brother, too, seemed sent by Providence 
at this moment, that he might receive the daughter whom, 
from motives of the basest selfishness, he had claimed as hii 
own. 

When I first saw my father at the Falls, he had just returned 
to his native land, in company with Julian, the young artist. 
Urged by one of those irresistible impulses which may be the 
pressure of an angel's hand, his spirit turned to the soil where 
he now firmly believed the ashes of his Rosalie reposed. He 
and Julian parted on their first arrival, met again on the morn- 
ing of our departure, and travelled together through some of 
the glowing and luxuriant regions of the West. After Julian 
left him to visit Grandison Place, he lingered amid scenes 
where nature revelled in all itj« primeval grandeur and original 
simplicity, sketching its boldest and most attractive features, till, 
Gotlnli reeled, he came to the city over which the memory of his 
brief wedded life trembled like a misty star throbbing on the 
lonely heart of night. Hearing that a St. James was in the 
dungeons of the Tombs, a convicted forger, he at once knew 
that it must be his brother. There he sought him, and learned 



444 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

from him that the child of Rosalie lived, though Rosahe w no 
more. 

As simple as sad, was the solution of my life's mystery. 

Concealment was the fatal source of our sorrows. Even the 
noble Henry St. James erred in concealing his twin brotherhood 
though woe and disgrace tarnished the once golden link. Run 
lie and Theresa both erred, in not giving their children th«i 
fiither's name, though they believed it accursed by perjury and 
guilt. 

Truth, and truth alone, is safe and omnipotent : ^ The etcr 
nal days of God are hers." Man may weave, but she will ua- 
deceive ; man may arrange, but Grod will dispose. 




CHAPTER LVII. 

I TOLD my father the history of my yoath and womanhood, 
of my marriage and widowhood, with feelings similar to those 
with which I poured out my soul into the oompassioDale bosom 
of my Heavenly Father. He listened, pitied, wept over, and 
then consoled me. 

*^ He must prove himself worthy of so sacred a trust," said 
he, clasping me to his bosom with all a fiuher^s tenderness, and 
all a mother's love, ^ before I ever commit it to his keeping. 
Never again, with my consent, shall you be given back to his 
arms, till 'the seed of the woman has bruised the serpentfs 
head.' " 

^ I will never leave you again, dear fiither, under any cir- 
cumstances, whatever they may be. Best assured, that come 
weal, come woe, we will never be separated. Not even for a 
husband's unclouded confidence, would I forsake a fioher^i 
sacred, new-found love." 

^ We must wait, and hope, and trust, my beloved dang^iter. 
Every thing will work together for the good of those that love 
God. I believe that now, fully, reverentially. Sooner or later 
all the ways of Providence will be justified to man, and made 
clear as the noonday sun." 

He looked up to heaven, and his fine countenance beamed 
with holy resignation and Christian faith. Oh I how I loved this 
dear, excellent, noble father I Every hour, nay, every moment 
I might say, my filial love and reverence increased. My feel- 
ings were so new, so overpowering, I could not analyse them* 
They were sweet as the strains of Edith's harp, yet grand as 
the roaring of ocean's swAing waves. The hBm of confidence, 

88 (M) 



446 ERNEST LIKWOOD. 

tlie rapture of ropose, the sublimity of veneration, the tend^* 
lu'ss of love, all blended like the djes of the ndnbow, and 
Kpaiuit'd with an arch of peace the retreating clouds of mj 

60Ul. 

** When sht U we go to Grandison Place ? " he asked. • I 
lonj: to pour a lather's gnititude into the ear of your beDe£l^ 
trt^ss. I long to visit the grave of my Rosalie/* 

*' To-morrow, to-day, — now, dear father, whenever you speik 
the word ; provided we are not separated, I do not mind bow 
soon." 

He smiled at my eagerness. 

'* Not quite so much haste, my daughter. I cannot leave to 
Kicliurd the sole task of ministering to the soul of my unhappy 
brother. His conscience is quickened, his feeling softened, and 
it may be that the day of grace is begun. Uis frame is weak 
and worn, his blood feverish, and drop by drop ia slowly drying 
in his veins. 1 never saw any one so fearfully altered. Tnily 
is it said, that ^ the wages of sin is death.' Oh ! if afler herd- 
ing with the swine and feeding on the husks of earth, he comes 
a repentant prodigal to his fathers home, it matters not how 
Foon he passes from that living tomb." 

My father's words were prophetic. The prisoner's wasted 
iVanie was consuming slowly, almost imperceptibly, like steel 
wlicn rust corrodes it. Richard and my father were with bim 
every day, and gathered round him every comfort which the 
law permitted, to soften the horrors of imprisonment. Not in 
vain were their labors of love. God blessed them. The rods 
wa> Masted. The waters gushed forth. Like the thief on the 
en>>>, he turned liis dying glance on his Saviour, and acknowl- 
ed^icd liim to be the Son of God. But it was long before the 
firry serpents of remorse were deadened by the sight of tbe 
braz<'n rej)tile, glittering with supernatural radiance on the ap- 
lifted eye of faitli. The struggle was fearful and agonizing 
but tlie victory triumphant. 

Had he needed me, I would have gone to him, and I often 
pleaded earnestly with my father to take me with him; but he 
said he did not wish me to be exposcdHo such harrowing aceoida, 




■ HNBBT LINWOOt*. 4i7 

wid that Kcbard combined tbe tendeniMS of k daughter with 
the devotion of a son. Poor Richard I his pale chc«^ and 
hemvj eyes bore witness to the protracted sufferings (^ his 
&ther, but he bore up bravely, sustained by tbe hope (^ his 
•onl's emancipation from the bondage of sin. 

The prisoner must have had an irtm oonsdtatioo. The 
ninga of his spirit flapped with sudi violence against its akel» 
ton bars, the vulture-beak of remorse dipping all the time into 
the quivering, bleeding heart, it is astoDishing hnw kxig it r^ 
nsted even after flesh and blood seemed wasted away. Day 
kfler day he lingered ; but as his aoni gradually unsheathed iu 
•elf, clearer views of Glod and eternity played nptn its surfiwe, 
till it flashed and burned, like a 8w<»d in the Minbeams of 

At length he died, with the hand of his son clasped in his, 
the bible of Theresa laid against his heart, and his brother 
kneeling in prayer by bis bedside. Death came softly, gently, 
Like an angel of release, and left tbe seal of peace on that 
brow, indented in life by the thunder-scars of sin and crime. 

After tbe first shock, Richard could not help feeling hu 
father's death an unspeakable blessing, accranpanied by such 
circumstances. In the grave his transgressions would be fbr- 
gotten, or remembered only to forgive. He must now rise, 
shake off the sackcloth and ashes from his spirit, and put on the 
beautiful garments of true manhood. The friends, who bad taken 
such an inlcrcst in bis education, must not be disa^ptunted in 
tbe career they had marked ouL Arrangements had been mado 
for him to study his profession with one of the moat eminent 
lawyers of Boston, and he was anxious to ctHumence immedi- 
ately, that be might find in mental excitement an antidote to 
morbid scnsibiliiy and harrowing memory. 

My father's wishes and my own turned to Grandison 
Place, and we prepared at once for our departure. I had ii^ 
formed Kirs. Linwood by letters of the events which I have 
related, and received her heart-felt omgratulation^ She ex- 
pressed an earnest desiifl to see my btber, but hooored too 
much the motives that induced him to remida, to wish him to 



1 



448 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

hasten. Now those motives no longer existed, I wrote to id- 
nouncc our coming, and soon afler we bade adieu to one of tbe 
most charming abodes of goodness, hospitalitj, and pure done^ 
tic happiness I have ever known. 

'^ You must write and tell me of all the changes of par 
changing destiny," said Mrs. Brahan, when she gave me the 
])arting embrace ; ^ no one can feel more deeply interested in 
them than myself. I feel in a measure associated with tk 
scenes of your liie-drama, for this is the place of your natiritr, 
and it was under this roof you were united to your noble and 
inestimable father. Be of good cheer. Good news wiU come^ 
waited from beyond the Indian seas, and jour second bridal 
morn will be fairer than the first** 

I thanked her with an overflowing heart I did not, like her, 
see the day-star of hope arising over that second bridal mora, 
but the sweet pathetic minor tone breathed in mj ear the same 
holy strain : — 

" Brightest and best of tho sons of the morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Bedeemer is laid." 



CHAPTER LVin. 

I wtsn m^ father could have ecea llie home of niy joinh, 
when he first beheld it, in tlie greenness of (spring or the bloom 
of summer: bul wliite, cold, and dazzling was ihc liiwn, nrid 
bleak, bare, and leafless the grand old elms and the statdj 
brotherhood of oaks that guarded the avenne. 

TVilh pride, gratitude, joy, and a thonsand mmgliiig emotioDi, 
I introduced mj father into a dwelling oonseoated by oo many 
recollections of happiness and woe. The clnnd wai remoTod 
from my birth, the stain from my lineage. I oonld now exnlt 
in my parentage and glory in my father. 

Julian was there, and welcomed Sl James with enthiuiaBtio 
pleasure, who, on his part, seemed to cherish for him eTen 
parental affection. With joy and triamph beaming in his eyea 
and glowing on his cheek, Julian took the lovely Edith by the 
hand, and introduced her as his bride. Still occupying her 
usual place in her mother's home, in all her sweetneas, simplid^, 
and epiriiualitj, it was difficult to believe any change had conw 
over her destiny. She had not wuted for my preaenoe, becanaa 
she knew the briduJ wreath woven for her woald recall the 
blighted bloom of mine. She had no festal weddiog. She 
could not, while her brother's &le was wrapped in uncertainty 

One Sunday evening after Mr. Somerville bad dismissed the 
congregation with the nsual benediction, Jnlian led Edith to tba 
altar, and her mother stood by her side till the aoleaui wwda 
were uttered that made them one. Bo noqile and htrfj wen the 
nuptial rilca of the wealthy and beaotifiil heiroM of GiaadiaaB 
Place. 

88 • (•••) 



450 EBNEST LINTV^OOD. 

My father spoke in exalted terms of the young artist, of bsa 
virtues and his genius, the singleness of his heart, the uprigb- 
ness of his principles, and the wamath and parity of his affii^ 
lions. Had he, my fallier, needed any passport to the faTor ci 
Mrs. Lin wood, he could not have had a surer one ; but her 
noble nature instantaneously recognized his congenial and ex- 
alted worth. He had that in his air, his countenance, and mas- 
ner, that distinguished him from the sons of xneUy as the pUmeti 
are distinguished by their clear, intense, and steadfiist lustre 
among the starry ranks of heaven. 

I gave him the manuscript my mother had left me, and at 
his recjuest pointed out the road and the diverging path that led 
to the spot where her grave was made. I did not ask to ac- 
company him, for I felt his emotions were too sacred for ereo 
his daughter to witness. I mourned that the desolatioo ci 
winter was added to the dreariness of death ; that a pall of 
snow, white as her winding-sheet and cold as her clay, covered 
the churchyard. In summer, when the grass was of an emer- 
ald green and the willows waved their weeping hranches with 
a gentle rustle against the clustering roses, whose breath per- 
fumed and whose blossoms beautified the place of graves, it 
was sweet, though sad, to wander amid the ruins of life, and 
meditate on its departed joys. 

The broken shaft, twined with a drooping wreath carved in 
bas-relief^ which rose above my mother's ashes, and the marble 
stone whieii marked the grave of Peggy, were erected the year 
after their deaths. The money which rewarded my services in 
tlie academy had been thus appropriated, or rather a portion of 
it. The remainder had been given to the poor, as Mr?. Lin- 
wood always supplied my wardrobe, as she did £dith's, and left 
no want of my own to satisfy, not even a wish to indulge. I 
mention tliis here, because it occurred to my mind that I bad 
not done Mrs. Linwood perfect justice with regard to the 
motives which induced her to diseipHne my character. 

I did not see my father for hours after his return. He re- 
tired to his chamber, and did not join the family circle till the 
evening lamps were lighted. He looked excessively pale, even 




SBNSBT LINWOOD. 451 

wan, and his countenance showed how moch he had suffered. 
Edith was singing when he came in, and he made a motion for 
her to continue ; for it was evident he did not wish to convene. 
I sat down by him without speaking ; and putting his arm round 
me, he drew me closely to his side. The plaintive melody of 
Edith's voice harmonized with the melancholy tone of his feel« 
ings, and seemed to shed on his soul a balmy and delicious tcitr 
ness. His spirit was with my mother in the dreams of the 
past, rather than the hopes of the future ; and the memory of 
its joys lived again in music's heavenly breath. 

It is a blessed thing to be remembered in death as my mother 
was. Her image was enshrined in her husband's heart, in the 
bloom and freshness of unfaded youth, as he had last beheld 
her, — and such it would ever remain. He had not seen the 
mournful process of fading and decay. To him, she was the 
bride of immortality ; and his love partook ci her own fresh- 
ness and youth and bloom. Grenius is Lafaniaine dejouvenee, 
in whose bright, deep waters the spirit bathes and renews its 
morning prime. It is the well-spring of the heart, — > the Gastalj 
of the soul. St, James had lived amid forms ci ideal beau^, 
till his spirit was imbued with their loveliness as with the fift- 
grance of flowers, and he breathed an atmosphere pure aa the 
world's first spring. He was yotm^, though past the meridian 
of life. There was but one mark of age upon his interesting 
and noble person, and that was the snowy shade that softened 
his raven hair, — foam of the waves ci time, showing they had 
been lashed by the storms, or driven against breakers and reefr 
of destiny. 

The first time I took him into the library, he stopped before 
the picture of Ernest I did not tell him whose it was. He 
gazed upon it long and earnestly. 

^ What a countenance I " he exclaimed. * I can see the liglits 
and shades of feeling flashing and darkening over it. It has 
the troubled splendor of a tropic night, when doods and moon- 
beams are struggling. Is it a portrait, or an ideal pietore ? " 

<^It is Ernest, — it is my husband," I answwed; and il 



452 EBNEST LINWOOD. 

Ecemed to me as if all the ocean surges that rolled between u 
were pressing their cold weight on my heart. 

^^ My poor girl ! my beloved Gabriella I All jour history is 
written there." 

I threw myself in his arms, and wept. Had I seen Ernest 
dead at my feet, I could not have felt more bitter grief. I had 
never indulged it so unrestrainedly before in his presence, for I 
had always thought more of him than myself ; and in trying to 
cheer him, I had found cheerfulness. Now I remembered only 
Ernest's idolatrous love, and his sorrows and sufferings, forget- 
ting my own wrongs; and I felt there would always be an 
aching void which even a father's and brother's tenderness (for 
brother I still called Richard) could never filL 

" Oh, my father," I cried, " bear with my weakness, — bear 
with me a little while. There is comfort in weeping on a father^s 
bosom, even for a loss like mine. I shall never see him again, 
lie is dead, or if living, is dead to me. You cannot blame me, 
father. You sec there a faint semblance of what be is, — splen- 
did, fascinating, and haunting, though at times so dark and fear- 
ful. No words of mine can give an idea of the depth, the 
strength, the madness of his love. It has been the blessing and 
the bane, the joy and the terror, the angel and the demon of my 
life. I know it was sinful in its wild excess, and mine waa sin* 
fill, too, in its blind idolatry, and I know the blessing of God 
could not hallow such a union. But how can I help feeling the 
(Irarth, the coldness, the weariness following such passionate 
emotions? How can I help feeling at times, that the sun of 
my existence is set, and a long, dark night before me ? " 

He did not answer, — he only pressed me convulsively to his 
licdi't, an<l I felt one hot tear, and then another and another 
liiliing on my brow. 

Oh ! it is cruel to wring tears from the strong heart of man; 
cruel, above all, to wring them from a father's heart, — that 
heart whose own sorrows had lately bled afresh ! Every drop 
fell heavy and burning ju? molten lead on my conscience. I had 
been yielding to a selfish burst of grief, thoughtless of the 
agony 1 was inflicting. 




. SBNKST LIHWOOO. 458 

" Foipve me, father I " I cried, " fbrgirfl me I On my koeea, 
too, I will pray my Heavenly Father to fargive the rebel who 
dares to murmur at hu chastisementB, when new end piiceleia 
blessings gladden her life. I thought I had leaned anhmi^ 
aioD, — and I have, father, I have kissed in lore and &ith the 
Almighty hand that laid me low. This haa been a daik mo- 
ment, but it is paaseiL" 

I kissed his band, and pressed it aoflly orer my listening 
eyes. 

" Forgive yoa, my child I " he repealed, " for « sorrow so naU 
ami, BO legitimate, and which has so mnch to jnstify it I I baTS 
wondered at your fortitude and disinterested interest in otben, ^ 
I have wondered at your Christian submission, your nnmurmQ> 
ing resignation, and I ivonder stilL But you must not consider 
your dtaliny as inevitably sad and lonely. Tou have not had 
time yet to receive tidings from Indi& If, after the letter yoa 
have written, your husband does not return with a heart brtAen 
by penitence and remorse, and his dark and jealous pasuoos 
slain by the sword of conviction, piercing twoedged and sharp 
(o the very nurrow of his Spirit, he is not worthy of thee, my 
spotless, precious child ; and the illusion of love will pass away, 
showing him to be selfish, tyrannical, and cmel, a being to be 
shunned and pitied, but no longer loved. Do not shudder at 
the picture I have drawn. The bodI that speaks from tboee 
eyes of thou.sand meanings," added he, looking at the portrait 
that gazed upon us with powerful and thrilling glance, ** most 
have some grand and redeeming qualitiea. I tnist in God that 
it will rise above the ashes of passion, purified and regenerated. 
Tticn your happiness will have a new foundation, whose builder 
and maker is tiod." 

" Oh ! dear father 1 " was all I could utter. He tpdk^ Uke 
one who had the gift of prophecy, and my spirit can^ the in- 
spiration of his words. 

I have not spoken of Richard, for I bad so mncb to say of 
my father, but I did not forget him. He accompanied us to 
Grandison Place, though he remained but « few days. IiDOold 
luA help feeling sad to see how the spaAling vin^ tf Ui 



454 ERNEST LIKWOOD. 

youth had passed away, the diamond brightness which renunded 
one of rippling waters in their sunbeams. But if less brilUmE, 
he was far more interesting. Stronger, deeper, higher qnl- 
ities were developed. The wind-shaken branches of tbou^ 
stretched with a broader sweep. The roots of his growing ak> 
ergies, wrenched by the storm, struck firmer and deeper, and 
the wounded bark gave forth a pure and invigorating odor. 

I walked with him, the evening before his departure, in the 
avenue from which the snow had been swept, leaving a smooth, 
wintry surface below. I was wrapped in furs, and the cold, 
frosty air braced me like a pair of strong arms. 

I had so much to say to Richard, and now I was alone witb 
him. I walked on in silence, feeling as if words had never 
been invented to express our ideas. 

^' You will never feel the want of a father^s care and affe&> 
tion," at length I said. '' My father could not love you better if 
you were his own son ; and surely no own brother could be 
dearer, Richard, tlian you are and ever will be to me. Toa 
must not look mournfully on the past, but forward into a bright- 
ening future." 

^' I have but one object in hfe now," he answered, " and that 
is, to improve the talents God has given me for the benefit of 
mankind. I am not conscious of any personal hope or ambi- 
tioiu but a strong sense of duty acts upon me, and will save me 
from the corrosion of disappointment and the listlessuess of de- 
spair." 

*' But you will not always feel so, Richard. You will expe- 
rience a strong reaction soon, and new-bom hopes and aspiiu- 
tioiis will shine gloriously to guide you upward and onward in 
your bright career. Think how young you are yet, Richard.** 

*• TJie consciousness of youth does not always bring joy. It 
cannot, wlien youthful hopes are blighted, Gabriella. One can- 
not tear iij) at once the deep-rooted affections of years. Never 
was a love [)lanted deeper, firmer than mine for you, before 
the soil of the heart had known the hardening winds <rf 
destiny. Start not, Gabriella, I am not going to utter one sen- 
timent, which, as a wife, you need blush to hear ; but the parting 




SBNBBT LINW001>« 4S5 

boar, like that of death, is an honest one, and I miist speak aa 
I feeL Maj jou never know or imagine m j wretchedness 
when I believed you to be my sister, knowing that though inno- 
cent, I had been guilty, and that I could not love 70a merely 
with a brother's love. Thank heaven I yon are my cousin* Ten 
thousand winning sweetnesses duster round this dear rehUkm- 
ahip. The dearest, the strongest, the purest I have ever known." 

^ You will know a stronger, a dearer one, dear Richard,— 
you do not know yet how strong." 

^^ I shall never think of my own happiness, Qabriella, till I 
am assured of yours." 

^ Then I will try to be hi^py for your sake." 

^ And if it should be that the ties severed by misfiirtane and 
distance ave never renewed, you will remain with your fiUher, 
and I will make my home with you, and it will be the business 
of both our lives to make you happy. No flower of the green- 
house was ever more tenderly cherished and guarded than you 
shall be, best beloved of so many heartsi" 

**• Thank you, oh, thank you, for all your tenderness, so far 
beyond my worth. Friend, brother, cousin, with you and such 
a father to love me, I ought to be the happiest and most grateful 
of human beings. But tell me one thing, dear Richard, before 
we part ; do you forgive Ernest the wrong he has done you, fireelj 
and fully ? " 

" From the bottom of my heart I da" 

^ And should we ever meet again, may I teD him io ? " 

^ Tell him I have nothing to forgive, for, believing as he did, 
vengeance could not wing a bolt of wrath too red, too deadly. 
But I would not recall the past Your fiUher beckons us,— 'be 
fears the frosty evening air for you, but it has given a lowing 
rose to your cheeks I " 

My father stood on the threshold to greet us, with that benign 
smile, that beautiful, winning smile that had so l<mg been slum* 
bering on his face, but which grew brighter and bri^^iter erezy 
time it beamed on my souL 

The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad Dr. Har- 
lowe and Mr. Somerville were with ui; and though the eneoli 



456 ERNEST LIKWOOD. 

v!iih which he had been associated had somewhat sobered tLe 
doctor 3 mirthful propensities, the geniality of his character vm 
triumphant over every circumstance. 

My father expressed to him the most fervent gratitude for lus 
parental kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt. 

** You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe ; ** and even if yoa 
did, and were the debt ten times beyond your grateful appredft- 
tion of it, I should consider myself repaid by the privilege of 
calling you my friend." 

No one could speak with more feeling or digni^ than the 
doctor, when the right chord was touched. He told me he had 
never seen the man he admired so much as my father ; and hov 
I>r()ud and happy it made me to have him say so, and know that 
his words were true ! No one who has not felt as 1 did, the 
mortitication, the shame and anguish of believing myself the 
daughter of a con\'icted criminxd, can understand the intense, 
the almost worshipping reverence with which I regarded mj 
late-found parent. To feci pride instead of humiliation, exultah 
tion instead of shame, and love instead of abhorrence, how great 
the contract, how unspeakable the relief, how sublime and hdj 
the gratitude I 



CHAPTER LIX. 



The snows of winter melted, iho diamond Jdcles dropped 
irata tho lret«, the glitterin*; fetters slipped from Uio strenms, 
•ad nature eamo forlL a cnplivo released from bondage, glowing 
with llie joy of emancipation. 

Notliing could be more beautiful, more glorioH!", than tini rn). 
ley in iLs vernal garniture. Sueh afiluenee of verdure ; such rich, 
•weeping foliage; sucti gracel'ul undolnlien of lull and dale; 
Bucli exquisite blending of light and shade; such pore, rrjoieing 
breoxee ; such blue, resplendent skies never before met, making 
ft laUmu vivant on wbieb the eye of the great Creator muM 
look down with delight 

It was the first time Mrs, Linwood had witnessed tlie opening 
of spring at GrB&di»on Place, and her faded spirit* rerLv«l in 
the midst of its blooming splendor. She had preferred its mio^ 
jMu-ative retirement during the past winter, and, in spile of iho 
Bolieilalions of her friends, refused to go to the inctrop<rfii>. My 
father and Julian both felt an artist's rapture at lite pro«poct 
unrolled in n grand panorama aronnd them, and tmnnferred 
to the canvas many a glowing picture. It wh deliglitfnl to 
walch the pnagress of these new creattons, — but far more is* 
teresiing when tlie human face was the subject of tlio pendL 
Edith and myself were multiplied islo so many charmiag form*, 
it ii strange we were not made vain by gaxing on tliem. 

I was very gntiping in my wishes, and wanted quite a pie- 
ture gallery of my friend*, — Mrs. Linwood, Edith, and Dr. 
Barlowe i and my indulgi^nt father made moKterly ■kelchea ef 
ftll for Lis exacting daugtilcr. And thus day sucMiedcd day, 
and DO wave from Indian sea« waAed tidings of Ibo abieDt fiiw- 



458 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

band and son. No " Star of the East ** dawned on the mgb- 
shades of my heart. And the raven voice kept echoii^ in my 
ear, " Never more, never more." There had been a lembfe 
gale sweeping along the whole eastern coast of the Atbtntic, 
and many a ship had gone down, freighted with an argosy rickr 
than gold, — the treasures of human hearts. I did not speak 
my fears, but the sickness of dread settled on ray spirits, in 
spite of the almost superhuman eflforts I made to shake it fjroni 
them. When my eyes were fixed on my father's paintings, I 
could see notliiug but storm-lashed billows, wrecking ships, and 
pale, drowning mariners. I could see that Mrs. Linwood and 
Edith participated in my apprehensions, though they did noc 
give them utterance. AVe hardly dared to look in each other*i 
faces, lest we should betray to each other thoughts which we 
would, but could not conceal. 

The library had been converted into my father's studio. He 
usually painted in the mornings as well as Julian ; and in the 
afternoon we rode, or walked as inchnation prompted, and the 
evenings were devoted to sewing, conversation, and muiic. 

One afternoon, after returning from a ride about sunset, I 
went into the library for a book which I had lefl there. I never 
wont there alone without stopping to gaze at the picture of Er- 
nest, which every day acquired a stronger fascination. •* Those 
ey(^^ of a thousand meanings," as my father had said, followed 
nie with thrilling intensity whenever I moved, and if I paused 
they fixed themselves on me as if never more to be withdrawn. 
Just now, as I entered, a crimson ray of the setting sun, strug- 
gling in through the curtained windows, fell warmly on the face, 
and gave it such a lifelike glow, that I actually started, as if 
life indeed were there. 

As I have said before, the library was remote trom the front 
part c>f the house, and even Margaret's loud, voluble laugh did 
not penetratfi its deep retirement. I know not how long, but 
it must have been very long that I stood gazing at the picture, 
for the crimson ray had fiided into a soft twilight haze, and the 
face seemed gradually receding further and further from me. 

The door opened. Never, never, shall I feel aa I did then 




BBNXBT LINWOOD. 459 

till I meet mj mother's spirit in another worlcL A pale hand 
rested, as if for support, on the latch of the door, — a &ce pale 
as the statues, but lighted up by eyes of burning radianoe» 
flashed like an apparition upon me. I stood as in a nightmare, 
incapable of motion or utterance, and a cloud rolled over my 
sight But I knew that Ernest was at my feet, that his iSue 
was buried in the folds of my dress, and his yoice in deep^ trem* 
nlous music, murmuring in my ear. 

^ Gabriella ! beloved Gabriellal I am not worthy to be called 
thy husband ; but banish me not, my own and only love l** 

At the sound of that voice, my paralysed senses burst the 
fetters that enthralled them, and awoke to life so keen, there was 
agony in the awakening. Every plan that reason had suggested 
and judgment approved was forgotten or destroyed, and love, 
#all-conqucring, unconquerable love, reigned over every thought, 
feeling, and emotion. I sunk upon my knees before him, — I 
encircled his neck with my arms, — I called him by every dear 
and tender name the vocabulary of love can furnish, — I wept 
upon his bosom showers of blissful and relieving tears. Thus 
we knelt and wept, locked in each other's arms, and again and 
again Ernest repeated — 

'^ I am not worthy to be thy husband," and I answered again 
and again — 

^ I love thee, Ernest God, who knoweth all things, knows, 
4nd he only, how I love thee." 

It is impossible to describe such scenes. Those who have 
never known them, must deem them high-wrought and extrava- 
gant ; those who have, cold and imperfect It is like trying to 
paint chain-lightning, or the coruscations of the aurora borea- 
lis. I thought not how he came. What cared I, when he was 
with mc, when his arms were round me, his heart answering to 
the throbs of mine ? Forgotten were suspicion, jealousy, vio- 
lence, and wrong, — nothing remained but the memory of love. 

As the shades of twilight deepened, his features seemed more 
dbtinct, for the mist which tears had left dissolved, and I oonld 
see how wan and shadowy he looked, and bow delicate, even to 
sickliness, the hue of bis transparent oomptoxioiL Traoea of 



400 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

Buffering were visible in every lineameDt, but they seemed left 
by the ground-swell of passion, rather than itd deeper ocein 
waves. 

'' You liave seen your mother ? " at length I said, feeling that 
I must no longer keep him from her, '^ and £dith ? And dL, 
Ernest ! have you seen my father ? Do jou know I have a 
father, whom I glory in acknowledging ? Do you know that the 
cloud is removed from my birth, the stigma from my name ? 
Oh, my husband, mine is a strange, eventful history I " 

** 'Mt. Brahan told me of the discovery of your father, and 
of the death of his unhappy brother. I have not seen him jeL 
liut my mother! When I left her, Gabriclla, she had not ona 
sih er hair. Mr/ hand sprinkled that premature anow." 

" It matters not now, dear Ernest," I cried, pained by the 
torturing sighs that spoke the depth of his remorse. *' Flowen 
will bloom sweetly under that light snow. £dith is happy. 
AVe will all be happy, — my father too, — come and see him, 
lOnust, — come, and tell me, if I have need to blush for mj 
lincaLTO." 

'* >iot for your lineage, but your husband. What must this 
n(»])le fatlior think of me ?" 

'' Every thing that is kind and Christian. He has sustained 
my faith, fed my hopes, and prophesied this hour of reunion. 
Come, ihr. moment you have seen him, you will trust, revere, 
:'imI love him." 

With slow and lii)goring steps we walked the winding gallery 
that led from the library, and entered the parlor, whose lights 
X (in(Ml dazzling ineontrast to the sod gloom we had left behind. 

Hand in hand we appn^iched my father, who stood with his 
buf'k to one of the windows, his tall and stately figure nobly 
«i' jincd. I tried to utter the words, " My husband ! my 
laili* r : " hut my parted Hps were mute. I threw myself into 
lii< arm-, with a hurst of emotion that was irrepressible, and he 
;rra-p«Ml the Iiand of Ernest and welcomed and blest him in 
w;irni, thouL'h laltcrin;,' aeeents. Then Edith came with her 
sweet Ai)ril face, and hung once more upon her brother*s neck, 
and his mother agaiu embraced him, and Julian walked to ths 



EnMEST MNirOOO. 461 

vindow and looked abroad, to hide the tears irhich ho thought a 
■tain upon hi^ manhood. 
I Ii wiu not till after the excitement of the hour had subsided, 

that we realized how weak and languid Ernest really was. Ha 
wtis obliged to confess how much he Had sufiercil from illne«i 
•nd fatigue, and that his strength was compleicljr exJ^austed. 
As be reclined on one of tho sofas, the crimson hue of the vel- 
vet formed such a sturiling coairaet to the pallor of Itis com- 
plexion, it gave him an appearance almost unearthly. 

" You have been ill, my sou," said Mrs. Ltowood, wiitehing 
him with intense anxiety. 

" I have been on the confines of iho spirit world, my inotlier ; 
•0 near as to see myself by the light it reflected. Death i» the 
■olar micjro^cope of life. It shows a hideous taam, where all 
■eemed fair and pure." 

He laid his band over his eyes with a nen'ous shudder. 
" But 1 am well now," he added ; " I am only suiTuring from 
&tJguc and excitement. Gahriclla's letter found mo leaning 
over the grave. It raised mc, rcelorod mo, brought me back to 
life, to hope, to love, and home." 

He told us. in tho course of the evening, how ho had found 
Hr. lliu-Uiid on the eve of embarking for liiiUa, and that he 
oSercd (o be his com|Muu'on; and how he bad written to hit 
mother before his voyage, telling her of his dcf^lination, and on- 
treuliug hiT to write if she were Mill willing to c«ll him her 
aoD. Tho letter c»me not to relievo the agonies of *ufi»:nK, 
fend mine contained the first tiding he roceirud from his nntiro 
Ijtnd. It found him, as he had said, on a sick-bed, and its eon- 
t«ni£ imparled new life to his worn and tortured being. He 
immodintely took passage in a home bound ship, tlunigh m 
weak he was obliged to be carriul on board in a UUer. Sir. 
Harland accompanied him to New York, where on debarking 
they had met Mr. Brahan, who had given falm a brief sketch 
of my visit, and the events that marked iL 

As t sal by him on a low sent, nilh his hand clasjitcd in mine, 
while ho told me in a low voic^' of the depth of his pcnitrni-e, 
the agonies of his remorse, and the hope of tiod's parthiu thai 



r 



4G2 ERNEST LINWOOD. 

had dawned on what he supposed the night ckmds of dnib,! 
saw him start as if in sadden pain. The laoe sleeve had faDei 
back from my left arm. His eyes were fixed on the wound lie 
bad inflicted. He bent his head forward, and pressed his fipi 
on the scar. 

'< They shall look upon him whom they have pierced," he 
murmured. '^ O my Savioor I coold thy murderers feel psogs 
of deeper remorse at the sight of thy scarred hands sod 
wounded side ? " 

" Never think of it again, dear Ernest. I did not know it, 
did not feel it. It never gave me a moment's pang." 

*" Yes, I remember well why you did not suffer." 

^' I^ut you must not remember. If yon love me, Ernest, 
make no allusion to the past. The future is ours ; youth and 
hope are ours ; and the promises of Grod, sure and stcadfiist, are 
ours. I feel as Noah and his children felt when they stepped 
from the ark on dry land, and saw the waters of the deluge re- 
treating, and the rainbow smiling on its clouds. What to them 
were the storms they had weathered, the dangers they bad over^ 
come ? They were all past Oh, my husband, let us believe 
that ours are past, and let us trust forever in the God of our 
fathers." 

'' I do — I do, my Gabriella. My fsath has hitherto been a 
cold abstraction ; now it is a living, vital flame, burning with 
steady and increasing light.* 

At this moment Edith, who had seated herself at the harp, 
renienibering well the soothing influence of music on her broth- 
er's soul, touched its resounding strings; and the magnificent 
strains of the Gloria in ExcehiSy . 

— " rose like a stream 
Of rich distilled perfume." 

I never licard any thing sound so sweet and heavenly. It came 
in, ji sublime chorus to the thoudits we had been uttering. It 
reminded me of the song of the morning stars, the anthem of 
the angels over the manger of JJethlehem, — so highly wrought 
were my feelings, — so softly, with such swelling harmony, had 
the notes stolen on the ear. 



EHNEBT LINWOOD. 463 

Emcst raised himself from bis reclining poeidoO) uid hia 
oounlenance glowed with raplare. I had never eeen it wear 
Heh an expreasioa before. " Old things hnd passed awaj, — 
■11 things bad become new." 

" There ia peace, — tbero is pardon," eaid he, in a voice too 
low for any ear but mine, when the last etniin melted away, — 
" there ia joy in heaven over the repenting einner, there is joy 
on CiOTth over the relunuog {irodigaL" 



4 



CONCLUSION. 

Two years and more have passed since my heart responded 
to the strains of the Gloria in ExcdsiSj as sung by Edith on tiie 
night of her brother's return. 

Come to this beautiful cottage on the scarshore, where ire 
have retired from the heat of summer, and joa can tell by a 
glance whether time has scattered blossoms or thorns in my 
path, durmg its rapid flight. 

Come into the piazza that faces the beach, and joa can look 
out on an ocean of molten gold, crimsoned here and there by 
the rays of the setting sun, and here and there melting off into 
a kind of burning silver. A glorious breeze is beginning to 
curl the face of the waters, and to swell the white sails of the 
skilFs and light vessels that skim the tide like birds of the 
air, apparently instinct with life and gladness. It rustles 
through the foliage, the bright, green foliage, that contrasts so 
dazzlingly with the smooth, white, sandy beach, — it lifts the 
soft, silky locks of that beautiful infant, that is cradled so lov- 
ingly in my father's arms. Oh! whose do you think that smil- 
ing cherub is, with such dark, velvet eyes, and pearly skin, and 
mouth of heavenly sweetness? It is mine, it is my own dar- 
ling Rosalie, my pearl, my sunbeam, my flower, my every 
sweet and precious name in one. 

But let nie not 8j)eak of her first, the youngest pilgrim to this 
sea-beat shore. There are others who claim the precedence. 
There is one on my right hand, whom if you do not remember 
with admiration and respect, it is because my pen has had no 
power to bring her character before you, in all its moral excd- 
lenco and Christian glory. You have not forgotten Mrs. 

(404) 




XEVBtT LIVWOOD. 4A5 

wood Her serene gray eje is turned to die 9^ffunaQf 
inimitable ocean, now slowlj rolling and i^eplj mnnnariiii^ 
as if its mighty heart were sdrred to its inmotl core^ bj a eoo- 
scioasness of its own grandeur. There is peace oo ber though 
filly placid brow, and long, long maj it rest theie. 

The young man on my left is reeogniaed at oace^ Ibr there la 
no one like him, my high-souled, gallant Bichaid. ffiseje qpai^ 
kles with much of its early quick-flashing lig^ The shadew 
of the dismal Tombs no longer ckrads, though it tempen, the 
brightness of his manhood JSe knows, thou|^ the world does 
not, that his ^Either fills a convict's grave, and this lenembranee 
chastens his pride, without humiliating him with the consdow- 
ness of disgrace. He is rapidly making himself a name and 
&me in the high places of society. Men of talent take him by 
the hand and welcome him as a younger brother to thdr rank% 
and fair and charming women smile upon and flatter him by the 
most winning attentions. He passes on fitun flower to flower, 
without seeking to gather one to place in his bosom, though he 
loves to inliale their fragrance and admire their bloom* 

^ One of these days you will think of marrying,** said a 
friend, while congratulating him on his briUiant prospects. 

^^ When I can find another GabrieUa," he answered 

All I Richard, there are thousands better and lovelier than 
Gabriella ; and you will yet find an angel spirit in woman's fimn, 
who will reward your filial virtues, and scatter the losea of love 
in the green path of fame. 

. Do you see that graceful figure floating along on the while 
beach, with a motion like the flowing wave, with hair like the 
sunbeami}, and eye as when 



14 



The blao skj trembles on a doad of porett white 1 



and he who walks by her side, with the romantic^ beaming 
countenance, now flashing with the enthusiasm, now shaded by 
the sensibility of genius ? They are the fiur-haired Edith, and 
the artist Julian. He has laid aside for awhile the pencil and 
the pallette, to drink in with us the invigorating breeaea of 
ocean. Let them pass on. They are happy* 



466 EBNE8T LZNWOOD. 

Another couple is slowly following, taller, larger, more of 
the " earth, earthy" Do you not recognize my quondam tuior 
and the once dauntless Meg? It is his midsummer Tocatko, 
and they, too, have come to breathe an atmosphere cooled by 
sea-born gales, and to renew the socialities of friendship amid 
grand and inspiruig influences. They walk on thoughtfully, 
pcni>ively, sometimes looking down on the smooth, continnoos 
beach, then upward to the mellow and glowing heavens. A 
sofiening shade has womanized the bold brow of I^Iadge, and her 
red lip has a more subdued tint. She, the care-defying, laugb- 
ter-breathing, untamable Madge, has known not only the refining 
power of love, but the chastening touch of sorrow. She bas 
given a lovely infant back to the God who gave it, and is thns 
link(>d to the world of angels. But she has treasures on earth 
still dearer. She leans on a strong arm and a true heart Let 
them pass on. They, too, are happy. 

]My dear father ! He is younger and handsomer than he was 
two years since, for happiness is a wonderful rejuvenator. I^ 
youth is renewed in ours, his Rosalie lives again in the cherub 
who bears her name, and in whom his eye traces the similitude 
of lier beauty. Fatlierl never since the hoar when I first 
addre^fsed thee by that holy name, have I bowed my knee in 
prayer without a thanksgiving to God for the priceless blessing 
bestowed in tliee. 

There is one more figure in this sea-side group, dearer, more 
interesting than all the rest to me. No longer the wan and 
l:in;rui(l wanderer returned from Indian shores, worn by re- 
niorsi', and tortured by memory. The light, if not the glow of 
health, ilhnnines his face, and a firmer, manlier tone exalts its 
niitural delicacy of coloring. 

J)() you not perceive a change in that once dark, though 
PI)l(n(Iid countenance ? Is there not more peace and softness, yet 
nion* di;rnity and depth of thought ? I will not say that clou«ls 
nevtr obscure its scFcnity, nor lightnings never dart across its 
surface, Tor life is still a conflict, and the passions, though 
chained :ls va-^sals by tlie victor hand of religion, will sometimes 
clank their fetters and threaten to resume their lost dominion ; 



EBNEST LIHWOOD. 4^7 

bnt they bare not trampled underfoot the now-boro blossoms 
of neddcd joj. I am bappj, a» happy as & pilgrim utd eo- 
joumer ought to be ; and even now, there is danger of my for* 
getting, in the fulness of my heart's content, that eternal coun- 
try, whither we are all hastening. 

We love each other as fondly, but leas idolatrously. That 
Side child has opened a channel in which our purified affcctioos 
flow together towards ihu fguntaiii of all love and joy. Ita 
lairy fingers are leading us gently on in die paths of domeailo 
harmony and peace. 

My beloved Emeat 1 my darling Rosalie I bow beauiiful they 
both seem, in the beams of the setting sun, that are playing in 
glory round them ! and how metodioosly and pensively, yot 
graiidly doe^ the mu^c of the murmuring waves hannomze 
with the minor tone of It'ndcmcss breathing in our hearts t 

We, too, are passing on in the procession of life, and tlie 
waves of time that are rolling behind ua vrill wash away the 
print of our footsteps, and others will follow, and others still, but 
few will be tossed on stormier seas, or tra anchored at last in a 
more blissful haven. 



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muIiiiK iirt>, liwi.. lutiiiuiuuubL, tvaitaiU, tcMoca, whila iW tUnni oltject U 
the iticulcnti'iii af 3 imtn iwliEiun. Tbs book oafrtw Oi iMCk lotd ■ din 
•niiiiniiv. tracinK <viil> » npld p«n mainnn utd cnttoa*, mTtboksl** 
■111 Ihruloj-i,-*, hi-tqrlc*) ■mult ud blofjitplllcal btddanu, uf thu JhuI 
■ml liii! prc-eni, villi ■ vlTtdnm nul pfaUoaoptdo^ miiiiwliiiii hanlly la 
be attuiiii-d eicepi l>v ■ Ioa|t niilanoo ta tha aoaatty dwortbad. 

"It ii ■ BirikitiK jiictuM lit tha mmdarM provuntow br wUobtblt 
»aH iwniii'ula. Uir craJIn uf th« nc; lad (h* blrthnlu* «r mlffbtr »m- 
pin'«, in wi'll HI xh' "'rrrn^lniM nf lupvrrttlloa, ha* MW ti«oi<bc«J U a 
Cliri<liiinp"»er...>..IH,...L.,u-..r.)<..rlrlUHtioauidth*d»etriBW«rChfiM. 

Ii» lii-ioric:il fiirt ' < •' u- ilian aoynmisnea.udmM* Imtni^ 

tiro thHn iniat h . Ii^ uc tt sll Buaiw wUh Iha p>^ 

gic«ofvulor prri I'^iix, (rilb Um DnmrmMMl MMtkr 

■dmiiiittralioii n. : . i\ ..n.-^i llulitv^ wtth a* rtNOMi ft«n 

whi.-b Uurke .Ire ■ ; 1 wil uratai7, ml ft ^'-'- " — — 

Ut Im" wrouubt .,111 In- "' ' — ■- 

who Inurk the luiul of U 
f^U uf huury idolalriio ni 
ceiice — the volume will hsvK ■ gmt GiMiliu 



ti(nu>iLltructmRr]<'iii l.:'^Inniiuc toeod. The Hithnr ww twsutjrjtra jtw* 
% midcDl of Iqi: <. ,i:.\ he brlon ID the work Ui ■econla otiym ton, 
^itmearth.a i .. iliii-tlvi philoMphy, Mid ■ bnrlj-loT*- V* know 
Dot where to fine .. ^.-nrrii'iin work tlul CMionr tha MOM fmnl wflh 

the luiie^bUlty, Of m Lngllth wnrii OiJoMjtn* Uwtam- '-' *■ 

cept ui the most vi'.ummuiu uid liia>;<Mw[bl« utaw." 



THE BIBLE HISTORY OF PRAYER. 

BY REV. CUAKLES A. GOODBICH. 
One Vol. 12ino. Price, $1. 

Tms beautiful volume contains the Examples of Prayer in the 
Old and New Testaments, "with a full explanation of the varvjw 
occasions on which they were oflered. with anecdotes and pracdt-al 
reflections. Tliis work comes strongly recommended. 

Rev. Dr. S. L. Pomroy says: — "This book is the result of % happy 
thought." 

Rev. ITr. Ilawefj, of Hartford, s&jst — "The plan and execntion of this 
work is emiucutly succcssfuL" 



A CURIOUS BOOK. 

THE RELIGION OF THE HEATHEN, 

IS ITS POPULAR AND STMBOUCAL DEYSLOPMENT. 
BY REV. JOSEPH B. GROSS. 

Tlie Contents of this uni(|ue, original, and highly Talnable work, 
arc as follows : — 1. Tlie Heathen Religion in its Popular Develop- 
ment; — 2. Worship bestowed upon Religioos Objects; — 8. Satrwl 
Places and Kelijjious Festivals; — 4. Priests and Idols ; — 5. Classi- 
fication and Antinuity ofthe Go<ls; — 6. Attributes of the Gods, and 
their floral and Physical Administration of the Worhl ; — 7. The 
Oracles, Divinations, or Au^ries of Heathenism; — 8. Heathen 
Kclijiion in its Symbolical Development; — 9. The Astronomical 
Gods; — 10. Ori«jfin .ind Character of the Eg^-ptian Religion; — 
1 1. Cosmonfony and Theory of the Hindoos ; — 12. Religious Cnred 
of the Scandinavians; — 13. Grods of the Heathen represented 
in Mytliolo;ry; — 14. The Mithras and Mitra ofthe Persians;— 
1j. 'iiio Olympic Games; — 16. The Eleusynian Mysteries. 

The Editor ofthe Christian Freeman says: — 

*' To the Ohrijitiiin pcholar, this is one of the most vnlaable works re- 
cently l><ue<l from the American jircss. Tho author gives pmof of havlnj; 
(levofed <::reat attention to the subject, and of having the capacity and trill 
to exeroisc a ju«t di>icrimination. He put* away the fallacious ideas trhich 
h:ive l)t>cn jjropap^ated upon the pods and worship of heathen antiqaitv. 
Ho viii(lio:it('» the phiIof»oj)hers ofthe Gentiles from that downrieht i«liocT 
or knavery which n pitiable prejudice and pride, if not shameful iguonmce, 
has nsoribiMl to them, and show's how naturally their views were conceirwl 
iiruhT tlie circumstances in which they were placed. It is interesting to 
see how mnch of the invention of tlie antique heathen mind in the con- 
struction of their Mytliolopy, wa:« pnnnpted by the difficulties which it 
thi-* moment trouhh' some of our Christian philosophers, in the wav of •©• 
counting for tho ovil<» that are in the world, without impeaching: the chir 
ftcter of the (/'*f^ff Doity. And we think they evinced uxon wisdcm thMi 
do the modern i)liilosoj)hcrs referred to." 



8 

THE WK1TIN08 OF 

REV. NEHEMIAH ADAMS, D. D. 



THE FRIENDS OF CHRIST. 
OmtoLSto. Prioa,»L«0. 

CHRIST A FRIEND. 



rs oombinalion or t 



rioiu lewning, fentblt naaadas, gnMfU U^ 



" Evfiy WAV irorthr of (bs flna tuU, laperior Mholmhlp, Uid tmS- 
tKttd Ciiriiliuiipirit ortheautbor." — itaton TntnUir, 

"Conceired in a dcliehtful xpiric, and written vltli nraibllItT feolll of 
IfaoaKlit OD J style." — iim'i ffir^ ( JfelkadU). 

"Tlieae Tolum» will Ure nnd Dot dfe, (nd u tone u ther ttra iriO 
DODri'h Biid derclop the geriDn of piotf. The portmtnrai or duWUn 
Chamcter arc to accarate and finely wroniht, Hfidikn and natnnU in their 
cnnrpptinn ami flnlih, that thay thrill tlia lonl o<nitiunsllj." — Bottom 
OMi/rfgationatiat. 

" The bcaaty of iityle, tendemeu or foellnK, and riohna* of doatrintl 



I i« imnmiM 
>enalirul voln 



REV. DR. ADAMS* NEW BOOK, 

THE COMMUNION SABBATH. 

Price, $1.00. 

form to -iii .(I. i'[ t'T I. i"i raimwt coniniwidiitlon of 

ip.which <hohand*->fal1Clui>tla)t 

_ _, ja thenw . ii- !• jiut the man In wrilv, 

■nd hio whole Rnal hroattm : i)j>>h «1awliif|M)(ea. Tha 

DVKil Interpslinti t<^> that I. rd'itaMa are IroaMdwIth 

the ikilloPa miiAler writer, i !!"■ rop'l itr* '>n^Uh«D* 

to the heart vilh *uch rulne-> i>i iijuiu>.Ni.ru uuJ dcjitb of motiMi, M ID 
feed lud rtrenelhen the mvi." 

IFrom ttf nnrii'on Strrrtiny, thn/onL] 
" Th" "pint "f irup jilptv jHTrndw frrn paj!", and tha ponacTontloqa 
Cliil'IliuicaiiharillvreiullUcic'jrkirithqiittiilrltaalprnAt. We ■I'll that 
•Varvohiirch-inrtnlirr in lhi> land, and e-pcr lolly FTpry delinquanl In ninni 
to Hid <uiliniui<-n "f Ihe lonl'i Supper, would procam IbelMoli and rtad it. 
It U a good work, and pertUwU to th* >lat* a th« CbiiUltM Ouelt." 



MOORE»S 00^£PIiETE 

ENCYCLOPJIDIA OF MUSIC: 

ELEMENTARY, TECHNICAL, HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, 
TOCAL, AND INSTRUMENTAI- 

In one snpcrb royal 8to. volume of over 1,000 pages. Price, in cloth, $1.00; 

half Turkey morocco, $4.50. 



This is a work which should be in every library, both public and 
private. It is by far the most thorough work on Miuic eyer }Nib» 
lished in the world. 

John S. Dwight, Esq., the accomplisbed editor of the " Joanial 
of Music," speaks thus of this great work : — 

" This long-announced and eagerly-expected work has at last made its 
appearance. It lies here before us, a tempting, noble-looking royal oc^ 
tavo, of a tliousand page?, solid as a London book, and qnite as neat and 
clear and elegant, as regards type and paper; artistically boond in purple 
cloth, and cheap, — only four dollars. It is one of the finest specimens of 
ty[)ograpliy which has ever issued from the Boston Stereotype Foundry. 
The musical illustrations, too, with which its pages abound, are most in- 
vitingly set. Extenially, tliis book challenges comparison with any Amer- 
ican sjiecimen of bookmaking; and the enterprising publishers, Messrs. 
J. r. .Jewett &; Co., have every reason to congratulate themselves upon the 
inanner in which they have ushered so important a woik into the world. 
We have begun by noticing externals: now for the work itself^ — its aim, 
anil method, and achievements. 

'' It j)roi>o>es to furnish (as far as may be in such compact form) a com- 
plete KiH \vclopo.»dia of Music; that is, a convenient book of reference for 
ready iniomiation upon all topics, names, and persons that pertain to 
inu<ic, as a science or an art. The subject-matters are alphabetically ar- 
ran;:oil, and include explanations on all points of musical science and nota^ 
tiori^; definitions of musical terms, to the number of at least five thousand; 
do-cripti(»ns of musical instruments of all nations, ancient and modern, 
with their scales; accounts of the lives and achievements of some four 
tliou>and nni^ical composers, peribrracrs, theorists, and critics; and, under 
one gen<^ral, n-^ well as many particular heads, an orderly synopsis of 
nHi>ic, from tlie first a^jcs down to very recent times. To this we may 
add a pretty copious miscellany of musical curiosities, antiquities, etc, 
and a liberal supjdy of musical illustrations in note." 




AlfD 

KINDRED PAPEBS RELATING TO THE SPHERE, CONDITION, 

AND DUTIES OF WOMAN. 

BT 
MAROARIT VULLRR 0880LI. 

iDmo BT MO BEOTBxk, AftTBvm B. FuuHu Wm AM IraoMioaai n 

HOEACI Ol 



In one elegant Tolome, Umo. Prio0, $1.00. 



The editor of the Christian TgTMwifu^y tpeaks tfam of iShSm ezti»> 
ordinary woman : — 

** Of the general spirit of the essaj we ean, and we moft, tpeek wtth 
f incere and hearty approbation. There is a XK>b]e end stinring ek)quenoe 
in many of the passages that no susceptible person can fidl to be affected 
by. Great lustrous thoughts break oat firtmi the pages, finely nttered. 
The pervading sentiment is humane, gentle, sympathetic. Miss Fuller 
saySf in one place : * I wish woman to live, first, for God*s sake; * and she 
seems to be possessed by the reverential, devout feeling indicated by this 
remark. She casts a deserved contempt on the miserable trifling so often 
exhibited by men in their conversation and deportment with women — a 
custom that depreciates and openly insults their character. For oat own 
part, we have often wondered at their patient toleration of the indignity 
implied so palpably in this sort of bearing. Mere topics of flippant dis- 
course are perpetually introduced in society for their entertainment, as 
if they were capable of comprehending noUiing else. She niges, in re- 
spectful term*, their rights, both in property, and, as mothers, to their 
children, suggesting some worthy thou^ts for lawmakers. She would 
have woman respectably employed. She would elevate the purposes of 
their livc<>, and, by dignifying their position and character, restore the 
ancient chivalrous respect paid them by every manly heart. Her no- 
tions) do not seem uUra nor extravagant. She does not ask that woinaa 
may be thrust into man*8 sphere, but that she may hare ari^t and hcoor- 
ablc sphere of her own, whether as a sister, daughter, mother, or *old- 
mnid.' And, for ourselves, we admire the noble appeals, near the ck)se 
of the work, in which she rebukes vice, and entreats ibr it a wise bnl 
prompt consideration. She has discussed a delicate topic delicately and 
fearlessly; without prudish folly, without timidity, as a true wonaa 
should. No tongue will dare to cavil at her. She is too erideatly abore 
all criticism in this quarter, — far up out of its reach. What she has said 
needed to be said, and, if the age has any necessity, needs, we flrmlj 
believe, to be repeated, felt, and acted upon. The * ninete«Ufa ceatniy * 
has a mission to woman, as well as she to the nineteenth eentniy.'* 



THE WRITINOS OF 

THE REV. JOHN GUMMING, D. D. 



OF LONDON. 



THE BENEDICTIONS^ OR THE BLESSED UFB, 1 voL, Iftno, priee, 75 

TIIE CHURCH BEFORE THE FLOOD, " 

THE TENT AND THE ALTAR, 

THE VOICES OP THE DAY, 

THE T0ICE3 OF THE NIGHT, 

THE VOICES OF THE DEAD, 

THE CHRISTIAN'S DAILY UFE, 

MORNING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON GENESIS, 

MORNING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON EXODUS, * 

MORNING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON LEVITICUS, 

EVENING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON MATTHXW, 

EVENING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON HARK, 

EVENING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON LUKE, 

EVENING SCRIPTURE READINGS ON JOHN, 

LECTURES ON RO^IANISM, [rexy thick Tolome,] 

TIIE END, «• M a ^ 



C( 


u 


U 


75 - 


<c 


u 


II 


75 - 


u 


t< 


il 


75 " 


<c 


u 


u 


73 » 


u 


«l 


II 


75 « 


u 


M 


M 


75 •* 


u 


U 


M 


75 ■ 


«• 


M 


U 


75 " 


u 


U 


U 


75 - 


u 


M 


U 


76 •♦ 


« 


M 


U 


75 " 


u 


tt 


U 


75 « 


M 


•« 


U 


75 « 


tt 


U 


U 


IM •* 



Tlic admirable writings of this distingaished preacher ture » wdl 
known in this country that it is not neceasaiy to publish imnj 
testimonials in their iavor. We give a few from leading zeli^^oas 

papers. 

" Thousands will bless the publishers for bringing to the American pub- 
lic a knowledge of these writings." — Ch. Mirror^ PorSamd, 

*' Dr. Gumming is unquestionably the most eminent preacher now in 
London, and it may be doubted whether he has his anperior eren in En- 
rope." — Puntan Recordtr, 

" No one can rise from the perusal of Dr. Cnmming^s writings withoot 
liavin;^ his mind enlightened, if not his heart amended." — lAtikenm Ob- 
server^ Baltimore. 

'' No Chri>tian family can afford to be without these books of Dr. Cam- 
ming." — Ch. Chronicley Philadelphia, 

" In style, those volumes ore very fascinating, while in spirit they ars 

deeply devout." — Cimgregailonalist^ Boston. 

*' All of this writer's works are eloquent, soul-stirring, and stimnlatiDgr 
pregnant with profitable instruction." — Zion's Herald, BotUm. 

*' Wo know few books so enriche<i with thought, and so perraded with 
genial Christian feeling, as those of Dr. Gumming."— r*e 
PhiUidtlj)hia. 



$m iSitsi IBink fex tjit C^jl. 



BAKER'S GHUBGH MUSIC. 

HTim-TDNES, CHASTS, BEKTEKCES, AXD AMTHEUSi 



BT B. F. BAEBB. 

Hub new and yrbat we beliere viU pron to b« ooe of tta mat 
ndnable coUectioiu of Sacnd Hntie }«t oAiml to tha p«UiD, irfl 
be published b^ lu ftboot the isA of Jnlj, IBBS. It «in be On 
tize of onlinAry coUectioos of Church Hone, and will be [Hinted 
OD Sne paper, and firmlj bonnd. Retail price, 7B eta. ST-50 per 
dozen. The attention of mnaical men ia reapoctflillf called to 
thia carefully prepared woiL 



BAKER'S SCHOOL MUSIC BOOKj 

A cou.B«Km or 
BONGS, CHANTS, AND HTMNS, 



Crataiuinj; a CotuptMa Sftteni of Ekmentar; liBtniefiiS la the Pilneiplt* 



BT B. F. B>K BB. 

Fik^ at nWI, SI) aimm; »M |* dna. 

This is unquestionably a work of grvat merit, and tme at itic 
bc9t Juvenile Muiic Books jet publitbcd It i* tving v^tt^naivelj 
introduced into the public anil pnvaic Kboolx of tlin ciliiw and 
largi^r towns in all aectiona of tliL> country. Tcu-hon uf muM 
who are unng thii work apeak in hij;h turaa id' !t> owirits. Ibe 
Bewspaper prea baa abo gtven a mmg vudJct in Itt tknt. 



8 
A BOOK FOR BOTH SEXES. 

PRICE, 75 CENTS. 

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MARRIAGE. 

BY A MARRIED MAN AND DISTINGUISHED PHYSICIAN. 



This is one of tho most remarkable books which has boon pub- 
lished in any country. In language simple, decorous, and respect- 
ful, and in terms of fatherly kindness, it reveals to the voung ot both 
sexes a fund of information hitherto chiefly iiiaccessi{»Ie in anv re- 
liable Ibrm, and for want of which many have been prompted to 
resort to sources either questionable or of immoral tendency. The 
work is written by one of our oldest and most experienced medi- 
cal men, who has devoted a long life to the study of Physiology. 
The work was examined in manuscript by competent judges, tod 
pronounced to be as unexceptionable as any work which has xd- 
peared in the Endish language. It breathes, moreover, a truly 
Christian spirit The following, briefly, are its contents : — 

1. The true Relation of the Sexes; — 2. Premature Marriage 
and its consequences; — 3. Errors of Eklucation; — 4. Errors of 
Courtship; — 5. Individual Transgression and its Penalties; — 6. 
Social Errors and their Punishment ; — 7. Physical Laws of Mar- 
riage ; — 8. A Fundamental Error; — 9. The Laws of Preg- 
nancy ; — 10. Crime without a name; — 11. The Laws of Lacta- 
tion ; — 12. A Crime that ought not to be named ; — IS. Direc- 
tions to Parents and Guardians ; — 14. General Diroctions. 

The Newspaper editors use the strongest language in referring 
to tills book. Read wuat they say. This wx)k is destined to 
produce a Physiological Revolution in this countzy. It will have 
an iininonse sale, because it concerns us all, both male and female. 
Tiio Editor of the Evening Traveller, Boston, uses the following 
strong language in noticing it: — 

''The Physioix^gy of Marriage — By an old Physician, 16mo, 259 
pa!:jo>. John 1*. Jewett &; Co. A book that should be read by every man 
ami NS'oman in the luiui — married or unmarried. It treats of topics of 
vital iiitt>re>t; but of which not one in a thousand know any thine: who 
in o<»ii-»equence of their thouphticss iCTiomnco, more than wilnil sinlulnefts, 
vit)late the laws of health und even life, bring upon themselves suffcrinf 
and W(»o, and upon their offspring enfeebled constitutions, dUea$e, via 
iK'ath. These topie-* are of a dclicato and difficult character, and for this 
n-a^on ;;<.»oil ni<.'n who were capable of treating them have avoided them. 
lUit ev«'rv reader of the Physiology of Marriage, unless utterly pervened 
in hi> ta-<tes and imagination, will admit, on reading these page^i, that the 
"old j)hy>i(Man" ha> dealt witli these important topics as an a.ged father 
would be likely to do when uddre>sing a beloved child. His instmctiont 
and eoun-els are so plain that none need mistake them, while there if 
nothing in them to minister to a perverted and prurient taste." 

Numerous other notices, equally strong, have been receiTed hf 

the Pubiiihers from all sections of the country. 



DB. HARBIOT K. HUKT. 



We have just publuhed tlie Anlobiognphjr of lliif Extkaobb^ 
KART WoMAK, under the title of 

GLANCES AND GLIMPSEa: 



XOTY TXiU 01 SOCIAL, OOXPBIBIIIO TVmT TUIfl <» 

PBOmiORAli Lin. 

Id oo* toIdid*, Una. PzIM) tl.M 

Thia work ii meeting with grmt &Tor. Hie e£tar ef dMOrt- 
Ibrd Repoblkan uji of it : — 

"A l>cx)k which shoald b« In the htodt of Vrerj fkinllj In AmerieL 



[ Fnm tk< JVm Far* Otuntr.] 

"The lifs lod eiperiMicM of ■ fcuula phyiieiu, ud tha radsotloHilM 
coiutniDed to Dukc, render thia Tolome rlcUj- woith t itodj, whatanr 



fei>ion. Wa think they are in mtaj i«apeoti fitted bj nAtnn fbr Ihk 
work, find we ham thcierore enoonnged them to itody tbe praftwiin. 
The perusal or thli Tolune, howeTOT, wilt amble cdb to tarn tome id^ 
quale idea of the embanaumenla thet beeet the female pnOtUtow, Bad 
while aome may be rtinmlaled, otban will be detvrad." 

[i'rtHII dt Daily Btt, jSoxo*.) 
"As the Is a woman oJ cIom oburrallaii uxl liat»d tatetlMtj ■ waau 
of heart as well u initi<l; whii liu* lUlnKled >a the practical, eTWy-day 
world far more than iiinv lenth* of bar MX; wbo ha* acCad Ar bar- 
aelf, clono the thInklDg And working of • aiaa ae well ai womani who li 
orisinnt, sharp, singular ~- fte thcae and Other teuone her book li a tare, 
InstnictiTe, fascinating, and nadaUa ooc How eonld il b« otborwiM? 
She is a Kce woman; an'l ha* wHttwi while onth. Pew will ffm with 
tome of her opinkma, for ilio i< ulli*. To li« ultra, M the wold foaa, b 
•omctimej to be M^iCul. Utii Hwil'i view at the p ro firt y qoMtkn, 
and some othen, have lung liMn the (ubjaci of Jeer and bntl, fast wUh 
Tory liitlB wit, and a gi«"ldfmi IvM Miun. — She may Iw ri^i— wac«i- 
ceds she is to a good eiffnt — and mnrlti a retpadAil bearlngi We neom- 
mendtheboak. It i* «>c (a nad and keep. To take down flam the aMf 
end luad again. Tliimi i I iiilj ll glil In ll.hel fliinHle ifcliiuhl" 



10 
THE WRITINGS OF 

REV. RUFUS W. CLARK, 

OF BOSTON. 



nEA\T:N AXD ITS SCRIPTURAL EMBLEMS, in one elegtnt 

8 vo Tohinie, with Five superb Steel Kngruvings; cloth . Sl^ 

The same in oh»th, full gilt, 5.*^ 

The same in Turkey Morocco, IW 

LECTUUES TO YOUNG MEN, Ono volume, 12nio. . . . 1.00 
'^ '' *' Gilt edged aud sides, . . IM 

LIFE SCENES OF THE MESSIAH. One volume, 12mo. . . 1-25 
" " " Cloth gilt, . . . l.:5 

" " " Turkey Morocco, . . IM 

^Ir. Clark's writings have met with great fkvor from the r^ 

ligious public and the reviewers. 



VOICES FROM THE SILENT LAND; 

OB 

rrnnrs nf CnnsnUtintt far tjit 3ffHritli. 

BY 

MRS. IL DWIGIIT WILLIAMS. 
In one eUi^int 12ino. Plain, $1.00 ; cloth, full gUt, f^lM ; calfestn, 8SiO. 

"Tiit.^ th<^ sil(Mit land! Ah! wlio can say that the footsteps* of none h» 
ojicc I'Aiii on earih have entered the shadow of tliut jMile n-aJiuV* 

"'riii>i i- a (Itliiihtful volume, «;uitcd for all: f«"»r all havo some dMT 
fr;<'!i.|- \\h') have p. no intd the ' Silent Land,* and iiltor whom they «oiu»- 
tinn'.-^ ca>;t n loii^'ing l<Mik into the ' sharlows of that pale rcuim.' 

' Till' air i> full of fjin>uHI.4 for the (lying, 
Auii niouruiii;;'' fur the dcJid.' 

" Thovo ' Vuicf^ from the Silent Laml,* havo been compiles! hy nne 
wliili- JM di'i'j) Millictjon, — her idi'a heini; to induce others to make a ciiod 
and wi-<' u-.' of' aiHietive di><p.'rjsatiMn-i; while, at the same time, she r&* 

oviv.."^ .^oi.'tliin;,' <'..ii.-'M;i;i.iii., t-* ln-r.-df. 

* 'Th ji\r»»»'f, n«! }i';ir )>y yi-nr wp lo*e 
KritMi.N t>ut nf -i-,'ht. in fiiitli ti> muse, 
II'»w jrriiw.' in I'ar.iili'O <»ur ^ton^' 

•' Tlin volurnc' !>< . .r<* u- i> eniini-iitlv fitted to ai«l us in «ich moiicgi 
nnd thercioro we heartily commend its ])erusal to those in affliction." 




11 

CJ^ Mtsiti^u ^ntxt^ Sari* 

A COLLBCnON OF 

CHOICE TUNES AND HYMNS 

lOB PRATER, CLASS, AND CAMP MEETINGSf CHOIR AND OONQRIQA- 

TIONAL SINGING. 

BT 

BeT. W. McDonald, of the Maine ConfereDCOf and S. Hudbabd, Eaq., 

Author of Several Mosical Works. 

Price, 50 cents single ; $4.80 per dozen. 



Thia work is destined to become a very popular music book 
for social meetings with the Methodist denomination. 

Rev. W. F. Farrin;;ton, Pastor of the Pine St Methodist Church, 
Portland, Maine, a man of fine musical taste, writes thus to the 
Editor of Ziou's Herald, Boston : — 

•* The Wksleyajt Sacrkd Harp. A Collection of Choice Tunes and 
Ilymnj* for Social and Congregational Singing. By Key. M. McDonald 
and S. HinitAKD, Esq. 

" I'ko. Wise: — I wonder that no more has been said publicly hi favor 
of this px.x'llent work! It must be that it has not been examined by a 
prurtiral to«t, pcnerally, or that it is thought to possess sufficient merit 
m itself to recommend it wherever it is known. The selection, composition, 
and arr.inpemcnt of the mu!»ic, and hjTnns, the latter principally from our 
stiiiidurd book, evince a taste and skill, which ought to give it an extensive 
circulation. It is just the book for our family circles, and social religious 
tneetiuprs. Having the hymn and music before us, on the same page, It 
will lielp to correct the time and tune of many who join in this delightful 
portion of relij;ious worship, and prevent those grotesque and grating 
sounds which often annihilate melody, and sometimes the devotional 
feeiinijs even, of those whoso ears and voices are scientifically cultivated. 
Cuinot the compiler add in another edition some fifteen or twenty care- 
fully ^elected tunes and hymns, suitable to be used in our public congre- 
gation<, where conj^pitional singing has been adopted? And we fondly 
hope th:it this metho<l of singing will speedily obtain throughout omr New 
England churches. It is the most conducive to spirituality and nmiom of 
any mode yet adopted. Success to the 'Harp,* and let every Methodist 
vestr}', especially-, be generally supplied with it. 

** W. F. FAKBDiaTOS. 

** Portland, Nov. 6, 1866." .,i. 



(Smt SiUrk on ^iiirfl 



MODERN KYSTEUIESi 



EXPLAINED AND EXPOSl 



BY KEV. PBESIDEXT UAOAJT- 



TOlEnne. ISmo- Price, tLPtL. 



Fmm the able Editor of the Cunbrulge CbMalda : — 

" The limit bu come wlien tlie iiheiMuieoji ur SpMBnlhni mnAm 
nnrl eiuuDinB>l. It wiS uot do to den; llie fiwto, aad wmr at Cl« 
ivIbM Uieiii. Thcra [n ttroiuiil nn a m/«lciiinia f^wtt, wUnfa ku b 
CHQ Iki oollcd tolo axonclH, bat tcblob Ii 
Dnuiilril far. Tlio roHlity ol iIibmi t: 
ciui!^i hiu givoa lua to inniuMTBLIi) ihanu by wtiieh lb* a 
been dcoelnd, uid ttto ciiuilt>iu dligtuloL Bjr uEtflilcc tb* v 
ful tbltii;* which harn baen upcn, b*iuU, aaJ Ml Ic ' 
xgiiritx, the l>«hiddan of iJima Ktnuisai iliiiDKi liare diiijiHWd miar »«■» 
hI>I« mun tuid drlTW tliam ta dcuf, net oul; Out uaaw. bui Iba mStj <f 
till focU. The tbmrdil; at atuUmtlog to ■'OdL mnu ■* Lonl Brna i^ 
SbUupvnni ths commoiiiilaa mniulu wllloli Iwfn l>un pnbWnl Id 
rfiTutfttioni Ihim UicSr npiriu U euoujiti lo Omw ditcndlt m tlM tbmtj I 
vthlcli o1a(iiu far the nuuilTmlaUnai n tliicilnsl nlgfn, 

" rmlilent Miiuui glv» b; fu the mnl iatltbotat7, rnirmnhJT. ml tihU 
lonoplilcal cxplanaUoD o( vhu Li t^eJ Sptrilnliam Uut «« hsia jU \\ 
w«]i, Us hM davQted much amc uid etruoK tkoocht lo tk« «xusiiiaUia i| 
of tbti aulyoct, hd'I wn haw In thl* vuttuuf tlia mull of U> EniiwtipUncM. il 
□a dr>«s Dol dpDf Uie rMillty uf lh« umm t«iiori*d, bsl li^Mi than «|k 
<uuuaiDC5, <md Ptplnini tholn b7 IUb Ih^ary.'* il 

Lieut. Gov. Oroirn oT MnMtchiuetb, «pea)b lliiu of the nk : ^ 

" Th# bunk Ik Ihn nbliul imA niiwt •ttithelor; one oa ihli iulif*ct Ihat 
hu yol appcnrod, and uliunld bt> rft»d by ■]! who w" ' ' " ' 

In repiril to tliOBe mysierloin pbenomen*."